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THE MIND-READER 






* ‘Good God! what a devilish scheme!’ ” 


[Pajre 248] 



THE 

MIND-READER 

Being- Some Pages from the Strange 
Life of Dr. Xavier Wycherley 

BY 

MAX RITTENBERG / 



ILLUSTRATED 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1913 




Copyright, 1913, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

Copyright, 1913, by the Story-Press Corporation 


Printed in the United States of America 


TO 

RUTGER BLEECKER JEWETT 


/ 








CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — His Life to Live Over Again ... 1 

II. — The Garden of Spices 8 

III. — The Zeal of the Scientist .... 19 

IV. — Blind Justice 34 

V. — The Errand of Death . . . ... 46 

VI. — A Royal Command 58 

VII. — The Decision 69 

VIII. — The Countess Plunges 80 

IX. — The Number 13 96 

X. — “ They Say She Is Bewitched ” . . . 108 

XI. — The Hut on the Marsh . . . .118 

XII. — A Man’s Honour at Stake . . . .129 

XIII. — The One Who Betrayed .... 140 

XIV. — Accident or Murder? 146 

XV. — Between a Man and His Conscience . 160 

XVI. — A Wanderer Returned 171 

XVII. — The Supreme Test of Courage . . .185 

XVIII. — The Mystery of Castle Kremenz . . 192 

XIX. — Inside the Castle 205 

XX. — The Secret of the Laboratory . . .212 

XXI. — The Voice from the Other World . . 220 

vii 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXII. — Breaking the Chains 232 

XXIII. — The Hour of Eleven 240 

XXIV. — Aftermath of Revenge .... 250 

XXV. — Courtesan Sands 259 

XXVI. — The Green Flare 272 

XXVII. — Labour Against Capital .... 281 

XXVIII.— A Battle of Wills 291 

XXIX.— The “Sending” ...... 297 

XXX. — On Medenham Down 307 

XXXI. — The Fortieth Milestone .... 319 


Vlll 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACING 

PAGE 

“ * Good God ! What a devilish scheme ! ’ ” Frontispiece Is* 
fff Keep away from me, for I am accursed!’” . . 126 

(ee Give me blood. Give me blood! Give me blood !!’ ” 216 

ce< There’s nobody here! What are you afraid of. 


Dad?”’ 


304 







THE MIND-READER 


CHAPTER I 

HIS LIFE TO LIVE OVER AGAIN 

W HY not?” quietly remarked the man at the 
other side of the restaurant table. 

His voice was cultured, courteous, deli- 
cately fined, and held a peculiarly soothing modulation. 
His age was given by the silvery hair, the drooping 
shoulders, the finely chiselled, ascetic features. Yet in 
his eyes — keen, searching, quietly humorous — there was 
youth. 

“ Of course it’s impossible,” answered Sir Miles 
Chenieston dreamily. Then he pulled himself together 
with a start, for the man at the opposite side of the 
table was a complete stranger to him. It was evening ; 
Monte Carlo; the Cafe de Paris. They were chance 
companions at the same table on the terrace, that ter- 
race looking over to the milk-white Casino and the palm- 
fronds of its garden. They had not exchanged a word 
previously, but the stranger’s remark had fitted in so 
smoothly with the baronet’s brown study that his an- 
swer had been given quite involuntarily. 

Sir Miles now looked at him coldly and murmured 
the conventional, “ I’m afraid I have not the pleas- 

5 > 


ure . . 


1 


THE MIND-READER 


“ Nor I,” said the stranger. “ But it would be a 
pity to let stupid convention keep us from being of 
service to one another. My name is Wycherley, Dr. 
Xavier Wycherley.” He passed over a card. “ You 
were saying that you wished you could only have your 
life to live over again.” 

“ I said nothing, to the best of my belief. Certain- 
ly my thoughts were running in that direction.” 

“ Very much the same thing.” 

Chenieston stared at him. 

The doctor continued: “Now you are wondering 
whether I am a madman or merely some kind of trick- 
ster new to you. Outwardly I appear to be respectable, 
and yet — Now it is on the tip of your tongue to tell 
me I am damned intrusive.” 

He spoke very quietly and evenly, with an under- 
current of gentle irony. Curiously enough, while his 
eyes were keenly fixed on the baronet, his left hand was 
engaged in drawing on a wine list a minute portrait of 
him, marvellously delicate and accurate. Dr. Wycher- 
ley, through long self-training, had acquired the faculty 
of being able to do two things perfectly at the same 
time. The drawing showed a man of forty-five, clean- 
shaven, hair brushed straight back from the forehead 
with that meticulous carefulness characteristic of the 
conventional Englishman of position, money and 
abundant leisure. The eyes were hard and tired ; 
around the mouth were the lines of weary satiety ; there 
was a cold reserve in the set of the features when in 
repose. 

Yet behind the conventional reserve was a sense of 

2 


HIS LIFE TO LIVE OVER AGAIN 


humour ; and it now came to his rescue as he answered 
with a smile : “ I admit it. I feel that convention would 
expect me to apologise, but I’m not going to do so. It 
is a damned intrusion, and you know it. Still, let’s 
pass that. You interest me. My name’s Chenieston.” 
He took out a card from a card-case in delicately 
tooled leather. 

Dr. Wycherley glanced at the proffered card. 
“ There are not many things that interest you nowa- 
days, Sir Miles. The gaming-table ” — he waved his 
hand in the direction of the Salle des Jeux , packed with 
money-lusting humanity crowding over ths green fields 
of the Goddess Chance — “ the gaming-table has no at- 
traction for you ; your liqueur has lost its savour ; your 
excellent cigar has gone out from want of attention.” 

Chenieston looked at it, and then threw it over the 
balcony of the terrace. “ Go on,” he said. 

“ And you wish you had your life to live over 
again. The world bores you. There are no surprises 
left. You have tasted everything. There is nothing 
left to do. It is satiety — No,” he added quickly, “ I 
have not been making enquiries about you beforehand. 
That passing impression of yours is a mistake, though a 
very natural one. Believe me when I say that I have 
never seen you before this hour. Nor did I know your 
name before you gave me your card.” 

“ I believe you,” answered Chenieston. The doc- 
tor’s voice carried unmistakable sincerity. “ But I 
must really keep better control of my features. I had 
flattered myself that my thoughts didn’t show on the 
surface.” 


3 


THE MIND-READER 


44 My training has been in the direction of sensing 
what is below the surface.” 

44 You’re a London specialist, I take it? ” 

44 I am a specialist,” answered Dr. Wycherley, lay- 
ing a shade of emphasis on the word, 44 but my name 
will not be found on the British register, and my field 
of action covers the whole world. To-day I am at 
Monte Carlo, but to-morrow I may be called to Paris, 
to Berlin, to London, to New York, to Tokio. I go 
wherever there is call for my services as a mental healer. 
I am sufficiently selfish to choose, where possible, the 
exceptional cases — the cases that will add to my knowl- 
edge of the human mind. And when I am not actively 
engaged on a case, I am still studying, as I am now at 
Monte Carlo.” 

44 Studying? ” 

44 Men and women. Here at Monte Carlo they un- 
mask. . . . But, as I was saying a few minutes ago, why 
not live your life over again?” 

44 Mephistopheles is not roaming Monte Carlo,” an- 
swered Chenieston, 44 and in any case I don’t know that 
I would care to play Faust. The role had its draw- 
backs.” 

44 The drawbacks were due to Mephistopheles’ ideas 
of a quid pro quo , were they not? ” 

44 1 have been frank with you,” said Chenieston, 
brusquely, 44 and I would like you to be equally frank 
with me. In plain words, what are you driving at?” 

Dr. Wycherley looked out over the black, velvety 
Mediterranean before answering, sipping his coffee 
slowly. Then he turned on Chenieston with his dark, 
4 


HIS LIFE TO' LIVE OVER AGAIN 


penetrating eyes, and answered with quiet emphasis, 
making the simple phrase carry a world of meaning: 
“ I can give you what you desire.” 

The baronet looked back at him with suspicion in 
his eyes. “ It’s not possible. I don’t know you. ...” 

“ It is possible,” was the deliberate answer. “ Quite 
possible. I can give you your life to live over again 
... if you will. . . . But I am not forcing my gifts 
upon you. One day, perhaps, you may care to come 
to me. You have my address on the card. I will now 
bid you good evening.” 

He rose and bowed courteously in a half-foreign 
way. Chenieston returned his “ good evening ” in non- 
committal fashion. He followed the doctor with his 
eyes as the latter left the cafe and made his way through 
the garden of the palms to the milk-white terraces that 
overlook the sea. 

“ What did it mean,” thought Chenieston. Of 
course there was some trickery underlying it. He felt 
hurriedly for his pocketbook. It was there intact, and 
he mentally apologised. The man was a gentleman be- 
yond doubt. Suppose it were really possible to ... ? 
No, the idea was impossibly fantastic — ridiculous! 

******* 

But the idea was not to be dismissed so lightly. 
When Dr. Wycherley planted his mental seeds, it was 
with the skill and experience of a master gardener. All 
through the winter and ensuing spring the idea started 
up unbidden into Chenieston’s consciousness when he 
was apparently thinking of other matters. During the 
5 


THE MIND-READER 


summer he fought against the growing obsession, tore 
up Dr. Wycherley’s card, made himself busy with out- 
door sports, even tried to interest himself in photog- 
raphy. 

His attempt was a failure. The strange doctor had 
placed a mental finger on the baronet’s mind, and the 
finger pressed upon it ceaselessly. Chenieston was in- 
deed bored by the world — satiated at forty-five. He 
had title, money, wide estates, health — to outward ap- 
pearance a man to be envied. But he had no wife or 
child, brother or sister, and with his distant relatives 
he was out of sympathy. His short married life of 
many years ago had been a disastrous episode; for his 
young wife had quickly plunged into the frivolities of 
a “ smart ” set, against his wishes, until they had 
drifted further and further apart and love had turned 
to hatred. 

Chenieston divorced her — for cause — settled a lump 
sum on her, and put her out of his life. Since then 
no other woman had made a niche in his heart. His 
happiness he would entrust to no other’s keeping. 

But happiness kept to oneself turns sour — like bread 
hoarded away. He had sought happiness in selfish 
pleasures — and found only satiety. He had made a 
wilderness and called it happiness. 

At the end of the summer he was shooting wearily, 
mechanically, without pleasure, on his Scotch grouse- 
moor. His house-party included a married couple, the 
Trevors, whose evident happiness in one another made 
him bitter. In the gun-room one evening Trevor be- 
6 


HIS LIFE TO LIVE OVER AGAIN 


came confidential concerning his wife. Said he : “ The 
little woman had a bad time of it a year ago — thought 
I was going to lose her. Nothing organic, you know — 
mental worry. The loss of our child. Doctors could 
do nothing. Then we came across an extraordinary 
fellow — I believe he’s got Italian blood in him — any- 
how he made my wife a new woman. Lives in a queer 
little island on an Italian lake — Isola Salvatore it’s 
called. . . . ” 

“ Name Wycherley? ” asked Chenieston. That had 
been the solitary address on the doctor’s card — “ Isola 
Salvatore ” and nothing further. 

“ Yes. . . . By the way, we never mention the child. 
It belongs to the past. My wife has forgotten.” 

“ Forgotten ! ” It sounded incredible. 

“ Completely.” 


CHAPTER II 


THE GARDEN OF SPICES 

O CTOBER on Lake RoveUasco is the picked 
month of the year. Even Chenieston, satiated 
with the glories of the world, felt stirred by the 
quiet beauty of the scene as he looked out from the win- 
dow of his hotel by the lakeside. Rovellasco is not yet 
an exploited tourist centre. Presently, perhaps, we 
shall see blatantly advertised “ A Week in Rosy Rovel- 
lasco for Five Guineas ! ” and then good-bye to the quiet 
scene that Sir Miles gazed on. 

At the far end, where the mountains crowd down 
upon the lake and take it to their arms, was a solitary 
islet deeply wooded. From amongst the trees peeped 
out a white glimpse of a villa. Chenieston’s eyes came 
back to that white spot again and again. Finally he 
seemed to arrive at a decision, for he entered his room 
and started to pack his portmanteau. He was travel- 
ling without his man. 

He had the bag carried down to the lakeside, and 
hailed a boatman in halting Italian : “ I want you to 
row me to Isola Salvatore.” 

The boatman shrank a little and crossed himself 
hurriedly. “ I do not like to,” he answered. “ No 
one likes to. He sends a boat ashore himself for his 
visitors. Perhaps if the signore will wait ...” 

8 


THE GARDEN OF SPICES 


Chenieston unwrapped a couple of five-lire notes 
from a roll and showed them silently. 

The boatman hesitated. His feelings were plainly 
torn between fear and greed. 

Chenieston took out some further loose change from 
his trouser pocket. 

“ If I do, signore, you will not ask me to set foot 
on the island ? ” 

“ Very well,” answered Chenieston, curtly, and 
seated himself in the boat. He felt a natural disgust 
at the boatman’s fear, but at the same time a feeling of 
something uncanny came down upon his own mind like 
a mist slowly driving over the hills. This man Wycher- 
ley must have queer powers. After a while the baronet 
endeavoured to draw the boatman into conversation, 
but whenever the questions came round to the subject 
of Isola Salvatore and its owner, the man evaded them 
or affected to misunderstand. 

As they drew near the islet the boatman suddenly 
crossed himself and muttered an invocation for heaven- 
ly protection. 

“ What is it? ” asked Chenieston, sharply. He 
strongly objected to all this mystery. 

“ Look, signore ! See for yourself ! 99 The man 
pointed tremblingly to a small dark object tearing 
through the water around the island. 

“ It is a dog — that is all,” answered Chenieston. 
“ Why all this fuss about a dog? Certainly it is swim- 
ming faster than any dog I have ever seen in the water.” 

“ He is not human, signore ! Look, as he ap- 
proaches, at his eyes ! ” 


9 


THE MIND-READER 


The dog tore towards them, but as though uncon- 
scious of their presence. The boatman hurriedly 
rowed out of its way. As it passed, Chenieston noted 
with something of a shock that only the whites of its 
eyes were to be seen, although the eyelids were full open. 

44 You see, signore, he is a hound of hell ! ” 

44 Get on ! 99 said Chenieston, brusquely. 

As they approached a small landing-stage on the 
islet, a servant came to meet them. He was clearly 
foreign, but spoke English quite adequately : 44 My mas- 
ter bids you welcome, Sir Miles. He expects you, but 
is unfortunately called away at the moment. He asks 
you to excuse him until this evening.” 

Chenieston was for the moment surprised at his 
name being known to the servant. This was succeeded 
by the very natural suspicion that there might be some 
means of communication between the hotel and Isola 
Salvatore. He had seen too much of the world and its 
trickeries to take good faith entirely for granted. But 
as he followed the man into the villa, the atmosphere of 
peace and restfulness and aloofness from the vanities 
of the world seeped in upon Chenieston and made him 
feel somehow soiled by that momentary suspicion of 
trickery. 

The room assigned to him was furnished with great 
simplicity but equal good taste. It was panelled en- 
tirely in some sweet but faintly scented Eastern wood — 
Japanese cypress, he afterwards learnt. The floor was 
bare except for one Persian rug harmonising its age- 
softened reds and browns with the reddish-brown of the 
panelling. The wooden bed, excessively simple, had a 
10 


THE GARDEN OF SPICES 


plain white coverlet over it. The solitary ornament to 
the room — hung facing the bed as the occupant would 
wake to see it — was a mezzotint of Botticelli’s “ Prima- 
vera.” The eye, leaving this, would turn to the wide- 
open veranda windows looking upon the lake curving 
down in gentle folds of bay to the little town of Rovel- 
lasco at the far end. 

The simplicity and dignity of that room brought an 
inward feeling of humility to the world-weary man as he 
entered. The room was a silent rebuke to the suspicion 
which had momentarily entered his thoughts. For a 
second time he made a mental apology to Dr. Wycher- 
ley. 

Until dinner Chenieston wandered about the garden 
of the house — a garden of botanical wonders. The 
ends of the earth seemed to have been ransacked for 
strange trees and plants with which to clothe the isle — 
camphor-trees, pepper-trees, palm-trees, trees of 
strange spices; cedars of Lebanon and deodars from 
the Himalayas and cryptomerias from the Far East; 
pines from the Rockies and eucalypti from New Zea- 
land ; wonderful vines and creepers everywhere. It was 
a veritable isle of spices. It breathed of peace and for- 
getfulness. Chenieston felt strangely soothed in spirit. 

After a dinner simple but in perfect gastronomic 
taste, the baronet took his cigar to a seat under a giant 
magnolia, looking out over the dark lake and the snow 
peaks to the north. He fell into a reverie from which 
he was roused by suddenly finding Dr. Wycherley smok- 
ing a cigarette beside him in silence. 

“ Excuse my not coming to welcome you before,” 
11 


THE MIND-READER 


said the doctor. 44 I had to go to New York last night 
— a patient of mine whose wealth is a curse to her.” 

44 I hope you had a pleasant trip,” answered Che- 
nieston, conventionally. Then he became aware of the 
extraordinary statement made by the doctor and added 
hurriedly : “ I thought for the moment you said New 
York.” 

44 Yes, that is what I said — of course, I did not 
mean in body.” 

46 You seem to have made a curious reputation for 
yourself in these parts,” said Chenieston, brusquely. 

The doctor smiled and answered with gentle irony: 
44 1 treated some of the peasants round here — 4 cast out 
devils 5 and so forth. They were very undecided 
whether to class me as an archangel or a lieutenant of 
Lucifer’s; finally they settled on the latter.” 

44 Your dog ...” 

44 Ah, yes, you met Rolf taking his four o’clock 
constitutional. I should explain that he has a perfect 
horror of the water in the ordinary way. When he 
was a puppy somebody tried to drown him, and I came 
to his rescue — nothing will induce him to go into the 
water now.” 

44 He looked as if he were swimming in his sleep — 
it was very queer.” 

44 Precisely. Post-hypnotic suggestion — ordered 
somnambulism, if you prefer it. It is good for his 
health to take a daily swim . . . that suggests unde- 
veloped possibilities in everyday life, does it not- — 
draught horses, mules, elephants, and so on? You take 
my meaning? ” 


12 


THE GARDEN OF SPICES 


With his left hand Dr. Wycherley was making deli- 
cate experiments with the almost human leaves of a 
“ sensitive mimosa,” though all the time his eyes were 
fixed on his guest. 

Chenieston drew himself together sharply and be- 
gan : “ That was not quite what I came to see you 
about.” 

“ There is no need for you to go into a detailed ex- 
planation. I sensed that when you arrived at the lake- 
side yesterday. You want to hear more — to continue 
our Monte Carlo conversation. Especially you want 
to know just precisely what I can offer you, and, to put 
it bluntly, what my terms are.” 

“ There seems no need for me to hold up my side of 
the conversation.” 

Dr. Wycherley smiled again. “ Not just at pres- 
ent. This is of course elementary and quite prelimi- 
nary. Later on, should you wish to try the experiment, 
I shall ask you to talk for days at a time. . . . To be- 
gin with, what are my terms for giving you your 
life over again? Not money, for of that I have ample 
for my simple needs. Not influence or power, for that 
I can build for myself. No, my demands are less ma- 
terial.” He paused. 

“ Well, what can I give you? ” 

“ Data.” 

“ I don’t follow you.” 

“ Scientific data — material for my life-work, psy- 
chological research. I should ask you to report 
progress. To bring, say twice a year, the book of your 
13 


THE MIND-READER 


life for my inspection. I want to know what a man 
would do with his second life” 

“ There are devilish possibilities in that,” answered 
Chenieston, setting his teeth. 

“ Precisely. If I don’t inspire you with confidence, 
you would be an utterly weak fool to trust yourself in 
my hands for an instant. If I were a poor man, the 
temptation might be irresistible; if I were a criminal 
man, the consequences might be horrible; if I were an 
enemy of Society, the consequences might be appalling. 
It is for you, a man of the world, to make up your mind 
what sort of a man I am. On the one hand you have 
the evidence of the peasants around here ; on the other 
hand ...” 

“ I met the Trevors,” interrupted Chenieston. 

“ That was a very simple case — like the amputation 
of a finger to a surgeon. Your case, I would warn 
you frankly, would be more- in the nature of a major 
internal operation. Have you the courage ? ” 

“ Explain to me what you would do.” 

Dr. Wycherley threw away his cigarette. “ Let us 
get at fundamentals — let me show you the psychological 
basis of happiness. Happiness is just contentment — * 
neither riches nor power can of themselves give a man 
happiness. Happiness comes from within. The world 
laughs at the millionaire who says that he wishes he 
were poor and obscure — but he speaks from experience. 
He has bought dearly the knowledge I now place before 
you. Happiness is just contentment; and contentment 
is based on illusion. Contentment sees the good and 
ignores the evil. Contentment forgets. Contentment 
14 ? 


THE GARDEN OF SPICES 


makes every day a new age, a wonderful experience 
opening out vistas of a rose-strewn future. You live 
in the past — every new experience as it arises is stale 
to you because you mentally compare it with the past. 
You have seen everything, tasted everything, done 
everything. Your experience is a daily burden to you. 

“ Now suppose you could forget all that had hap- 
pened to you from twenty-one to — shall we say forty- 
five? The world would be a new place to you; your 
life would be before and not behind you. You would 
be a young man in mind again.” 

“ But not in body,” interrupted Chenieston. 

<fi No, one cannot altogether put back the develop- 
ment of the body. But 4 a man is as young as he feels 9 
is an old saying, and a very true one. I know boys of 
fifty — I expect you know some also. The mind reacts 
on the body.” 

44 To have a blank page from twenty-one to forty- 
five would hold its disadvantages,” said the baronet, 
thoughtfully. 

44 Precisely. Therein lies the difficulty of the oper- 
ation. One has to cut out only what is deleterious. It 
is like removing a great cancerous growth from the 
body. One must use the scalpel very warily. It is 
not an operation for the raw medical student. You 
place your mental life in the hands of the trained sur- 
geon ... if you have faith in him. That is why I said 
a little while ago that I should ask you to talk for days 
at a time. Your past life would have to be laid bare to 
me, and to my judgment you would have to confide the 
15 


THE MIND-READER 


decision of what should be cut out and what left in 
place. There is the matter in a nutshell.” 

44 You propose to hack at my mind, my Ego, my in- 
dividuality? ” 

44 There you betray an ignorance of psychology. 
You confuse several distinct issues. I cannot touch 
your Ego or higher self - — we call it the 4 consciousness 9 
— I can only operate on your lower self, the 4 sub-con- 
sciousness,’ the warden of your memories. In the hyp- 
notic state we converse and treat only with the patient’s 
sub-consciousness.” 

44 Then where does the higher self go to? 99 

44 Where does it go to in sleep, I ask you in return ? 
But let me lend you a scientific book to-night which will 
put the matter before you in detail.” 

44 Thanks,” said Chenieston. 44 I’ll read it. To- 
morrow I will give you my decision.” 

****** * 

In after days the month that Chenieston spent on 
Isola Salvatore seemed to him like a hazy dreamland. 
He remembered vaguely that Dr. Wycherley had 
placed him at evenfall of the second day under the 
great magnolia, stretched out in a gloriously easy 
chair, and had suspended in front of and above him an 
imprisoned firefly. On this he had to concentrate his 
gaze until tired eyelids closed down over tired eyes. 
Meanwhile the doctor was talking to him — quietly, even- 
ly, soothingly. Sleep had stolen upon him — smooth, 
restful, heavenly sleep. 

He had no direct knowledge of what had happened 

16 


THE GARDEN OF SPICES 


to him in sleep, but Dr. Wycherley told him that he was 
then talking en rapport with his sub-consciousness for 
hours at a time, bringing out his past life, ordering for- 
getfulness of this, allowing remembrance of that. 

The month was to Chenieston at once an eternity 
and a moment. 

In the intervals between the hypnotic trances he had 
written and signed long documents for the instruction 
of his lawyers, his bankers and his stewards, directing 
the disposal of his estates amongst his distant relatives 
and various charities, should he not return again to his 
world. He was to give out that he had gone to a vague 
somewhere to shoot big game — a handy excuse — and 
he was to start life afresh under a new name and with 
a few thousands only as capital. He was to be one of 
the world’s workers. 

He began to grow a beard to change his outward 
identity, and Dr. Wycherley spent long hours training 
up within him a new voice while in the hypnotic state. 
Change the voice and you make a man unrecognisable 
to his friends. 

When Stephen Carruthers — this was the name 
agreed upon — left Isola Salvatore he staggered men- 
tally as a man staggers bodily when he leaves the nurs- 
ing home. His past life was mainly a blank to him, 
though there remained certain memories which Dr. 
Wycherley had judged advisable. There were sudden 
gaps in his memory stitched together and working 
unsmoothly, as the muscles work unsmoothly where the 
surgeon has used the knife. Queer flashes of uncon- 

17 


THE MIND-READER 


nected incidents came upon him every now and then, 
dazzling him. He felt horribly helpless. 

The doctor accompanied him to land and stayed 
with him at intervals for some months while they roamed 
the Continent together. Gradually Carruthers began 
to feel his feet — to speak metaphorically — and a great 
happiness surged over him. Everything was new, 
fresh, unexplored. The Riviera had before seemed to 
him a string of pleasure-cities painted like the cheeks 
and lips of a painted woman — a horrible rouged out- 
rage upon Nature; now he saw the good and not the 
evil, and it was fresh to him and very pleasant to his 
eyes. The blood within him danced and sparkled like 
champagne. He thought and spoke as a youngster 
fresh from college. 

Carruthers was a new man. 


CHAPTER III 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 

A T the age of forty-five — to outward appearance 
— a man cannot very well study for and enter 
one of the close professions. The few oldish 
men who do walk the hospitals or eat dinners at the 
Temple are regarded by the world with good-natured, 
rather contemptuous pity. Carruthers, finding him- 
self in possession of a few thousand pounds only, in- 
sufficient to live on idly but offering possibilities for 
earning an income, chose to enter business, which has 
no age-barrier. 

He returned to London. As far as his memory 
went, he had not seen it since he was a boy of twenty- 
one or so, and to his eyes great changes had taken 
place. They struck him sharply like a blow in the face 
delivered in the dark; at first he was confused and 
deafened. It took time for him to adjust himself. 

Queer flashes of sub-conscious memory stirred him 
to actions which were meaningless to his understanding. 
One day, for instance, he found himself walking me- 
chanically up the steps of a mansion in Berkeley Square 
and ringing the bell. A butler appeared and asked 
him his business. Suddenly, to his painful confusion, 
Carruthers discovered that he had no business there, 
19 


THE MIND-READER 


had no reason to be walking up those steps and ringing 
that bell. He pulled himself together, and for the sake 
of saying something asked if the master of the house 
were in. The butler, looking at him suspiciously as 
someone of dubious intentions, replied that Sir Miles 
Chenieston was abroad, and edged him down the steps 
again. The name seemed somehow familiar to Car- 
ruthers, but he could not place the connection. It was 
one of many worrying episodes. 

With part of his money he bought a share in a small 
publishing firm, and in the interest of the work the scars 
in his memory were smoothed out of conscious thought. 
The semi-professional aspect of the publishing business 
appealed to his natural instincts ; and since his partner, 
Bailey by name, was easy to get on with, the work gave 
him keen pleasure. “ Office hours ” meant nothing to 
him, often he would stay on at Booksellers’ Row long 
after the clerks had left and the neighbouring offices 
were cold and dark, and the grey ghosts of little old 
caretakers came out of their daylight hiding-places to 
dust and sweep. He was keen to build up the business 
into a large organisation. 

“ How young you are ! ” said Bailey to him one 
day, half chaffingly, half enviously. “ I declare you 
make me feel like an old fogey.” 

“ I am young,” answered Carruthers. “ Why 
shouldn’t I be? Everything is so new and fresh; life 
rushes into one full-tide. Isn’t it the same with you? ” 

“ I wish I knew your secret.” 

" What secret? ” Carruthers felt, for a brief frac- 
tion of a second, a queer mental confusion that was like 
20 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 


a sudden stab of pain. “ I haven’t got secrets, my dear 
fellow.” 

“ I only meant the secret of your perpetual youth,” 
his partner hastened to explain. The subject dropped. 

Twice a year, spring and autumn, Carruthers took 
a holiday from work and journeyed to the islet on Lake 
Rovellasco in unconscious fulfilment of his contract with 
Dr. Wycherley. Some force within him impelled him 
to steep himself in the waters of peace, to feel the gar- 
den of spices close around him and take him to itself 
in an ecstacy of joy unutterable. He yielded himself 
to the soothing passes of the mental healer — all uncon- 
scious he laid his soul bare to the gaze of Dr. Wycher- 
ley, who studied him as the biologist studies the growth 
of some strange new organism. 

The mental healer was a combination of scientist 
and humanitarian which is far from usual. As the lat- 
ter, his warm human sympathies went out unceasingly 
to the weak, the oppressed, the suffering, the sick of 
body and the sick of mind. But as a scientist he would 
for the time being forget the patient in the subject. 
Carruthers in the hypnotic state was a subject of ab- 
sorbing interest to the doctor, and he did not scruple 
to probe the man’s most inner, most intimate feelings. 
He had explained that frankly to the baronet before the 
latter had consented to undergo the mental operation. 
“ I want to know what a man would do with his second 
life,” the doctor had said. In return for this new life 
he was giving to Carruthers, he was acquiring scientific 
data which were priceless beyond money. Carruthers 
21 


THE MIND-READER 


was to him alternately a friend and a subject for scien- 
tific exploration. 

The doctor no longer made suggestions to his sub- 
ject while in the hypnotic state. He had no desire or 
intention to direct Carruthers’ actions. He merely 
wished to observe, as an exceptionally privileged specta- 
tor, what Carruthers would make of his second life, 
and the study of the man gave him the keenest scientific 
pleasure. The world-weary idler, the parasite on the 
toil of other men and women, was becoming transformed 
to a worker amongst the common labours of humanity, 
and in his work he was acquiring a new set of feelings, 
emotions, main-springs of action which to Dr. Wycher- 
ley were of intense interest. 

But what would happen when the inevitable woman 
came into Carruthers’ life? The doctor knew intimate- 
ly of the former marriage and its unhappy ending, of 
the baronet’s aloofness from women except of the su- 
perficial plane of the -flaneur who seeks a temporary, 
sensual amusement. Chenieston had dallied with many 
women, but had given his inner self to none but the wife 
he had divorced and put out of his life. Could he, in 
his new personality, be stirred by real love, or would 
the Chenieston career have killed that possibility? 
Could the mental regeneration extend to that most in- 
timate, most sacred of a man’s emotions, or would a 
woman still be to Carruthers, as to Chenieston, a mere 
plaything for a few idle weeks? 

When the inevitable did happen, it was, to the keen 
pleasure of Dr. Wycherley the scientist, on one of 
Carruthers’ visits to the island. Carruthers spent his 
22 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 


holidays in fishing, bathing and rowing amongst the 
peaceful solitudes of Lake Rovellasco. He made great 
friends with Rolf, who, barring only the bathe, was 
ready to accompany him anywhere. Rolf was a big, 
shaggy-haired English sheep-dog, born for friendship. 

It was on a lake excursion that the inevitable hap- 
pened. The occasion was pure chance — one of those 
sudden squalls that occasionally sweep down in fury on 
Lake Rovellasco from the snow-peaks, and toss the 
waters as a farmer pitchforks the hay. She was alone 
in a light skiff with a local boatman, who unexpectedly 
lost an oar, lost nerve, and implored help from above. 

Carruthers, not far off, saw the danger and rowed 
hard to help, Rolf barking eagerly on the front seat. 
Nothing could have been worse for the boatman’s peace 
of mind. Abandoning the other oar, he grovelled on 
the floor of the boat, while the waves slapped in angrily. 

“ Can you catch a rope ? ” shouted Carruthers. 

Mrs. Manner ing pluckily climbed over the prostrate 
boatman to the front of the skiff, caught the rope not 
unskilfully and tied it to a ring. With the skiff in tow, 
Carruthers faced the wind and kept head to waves for 
an hour or more until the squall died away and the sun 
came out to smoothe down the waters. 

It was natural for Carruthers to call at her hotel 
next day to make polite enquiries. But it was more 
than mere politeness that took him ; he had felt strange- 
ly attracted towards this woman no longer young, no 
longer beautiful, and occupying the position of a paid 
nurse to a testy old gentleman with half-a-dozen im- 
aginary ailments. Something stronger than himself 
23 


THE MIND-READER 


made him linger beyond the time of a conventional call 
— made him row over to land the next day, and the day 
after, contriving to meet Helen Mannering on the 
water-front where the lace work and the wood-mosaic 
work shops display their allurements, and all the little 
world of Rovellasco saunters. 

He even suffered gladly the querulous egoism of 
Colonel Padgett so that he might be near Mrs. Manner- 
ing. Dr. Wycherley, to whom nothing was hidden, 
spoke to him in gentle sympathy one evening when 
Carruthers sat musing under his favourite magnolia- 
tree. 

44 A woman in a thousand,” said the doctor. 

44 In a million,” answered Carruthers. 

There was silence, a silence of mutual understand- 
ing. 

44 Why not? ” asked the doctor. His sensitive left 
hand was rapidly drawing a tiny portrait, a very per- 
fect miniature, of Mrs. Mannering on a scrap of paper. 

44 Yes, why not? ” echoed Carruthers. 46 It’s a 
dog’s life for her. ... I could make her ideally happy. 

. . . There’s sympathy between us beyond anything 
I’ve ever felt. . . .You believe in the idea of one’s affin- 
ity, Doctor? ” 

44 1 do not know,” returned Dr. Wycherley, gravely 
and slowly. 44 As a scientist I say that I do not know. 
One feels that it is true, but there is no evidence. If 
there is only one affinity for each of us in all this wide 
world, what are the chances of meeting? Infinitesimal. 

. . .No, there is no evidence. It is one of my prob- 
lems.” 


24 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 


So Carruthers took courage in hand and contrived 
his opportunity. 

The witchery of night on lake and mountain was 
around them as they stood by a comer of a balcony, 
far enough away from the few other guests of the hotel 
to give them solitude. They had been talking disjoint- 
edly, with many intervals of silence, speaking now and 
again of topics which touched them in common — art, 
music, books, especially books, for Carruthers was now 
whole-heartedly an enthusiast in the field of publishing. 

Then came the moment when his voice changed from 
the ease of impersonal topics, and went deeper in tone, 
as a man’s voice does when he has to speak of emotions 
which touch him as sacred. 

“ Colonel Padgett tells me you are to move on soon,” 
he said. 

Mrs. Mannering realised the significance of the new 
tone in his voice, and a slight tremour went through 
her. 

“ Yes,” she answered. “ We go to Rome.” 

“ Then I mustn’t wait — I mustn’t let opportunity 
slip by. Helen, you know what I have to say to you. 
We were made for one another. Every fibre in me tells 
me that’s true. I’m fulltide with happiness, and I have 
to share it. I can share it only with you.” He spoke 
deeply and passionately, breathing fast. 

She turned away. 

“ Helen, I’m not a rich man, but I can give you 
all the best that’s in me. Won’t you take me? Look 
me in the eyes and read me ! You can’t misunderstand 
my feelings ! ” 


25 


THE MIND-READER 


He caught at her hands; she drew them away, and 
her voice quivered as she answered: 

46 1 can’t, I can’t ! Don’t you read my feelings ? 
Has love blinded you ? ” 

Carruthers felt utterly at sea. 44 1 don’t under- 
stand at all,” he murmured. 44 1 thought your husband 
was dead. I thought you were free. I thought my 
feelings were echoing in yours.” 

44 Yes, but — ” she paused, searching in his face as 
though to read some riddle there which eluded her. 

44 Be frank with me. Be fair to me,” he urged. 
44 Have I been too hasty? Too selfish in forcing my- 
self upon you? Don’t you realise I’m passionately in 
love with you, and that means I wouldn’t hurt your 
feelings for worlds. Tell me where my mistake lies. 
Tell me what you want from me ! ” 

Again she turned away and looked out over the 
witchery of lake and mountain, as though to seek in- 
spiration or courage from them. When at length she 
spoke to him, her voice was firm with resolve: 

44 Don’t think that I’m rating lightly what you’ve 
offered me. But you are not yourself — this is a mo- 
ment of madness. If I accepted, it might mean a life- 
time’s misery — for both of us. When you awoke . . . 
Look me in the eyes, look at me well ! ” 

Carruthers looked, puzzled, confessed himself at 
sea : 44 1 don’t understand at all. I only see what is 
very beautiful to me, and what I hold very dear. This 
is not quixotism. Your position matters nothing to me. 
I see you for what you are, and I want you — I want 
you passionately ! God, how I want you ! ” 

26 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 


44 Give me till to-morrow,” said Helen suddenly. 

44 To-morrow, then, I come for my answer,” he ac- 
quiesced. 

“ We’ll say good-night now.” 

His eyes followed her with hungry longing as she 
made her way from the balcony to the lighted rooms of 
the hotel, and he knew that as concerned his own feel- 
ings there was no possible mistake. Her hesitation 
must be the natural one of a woman whose feelings had 
not kept pace with his own. She was in love with him, 
but she needed time to make that big final decision. 

To-morrow she would say 44 Yes.” 

******* 

But in the morning he found only Colonel Padgett, 
raging fussily and repetitiously : 

44 By Gad, sir, it’s outrageous, positively outrage- 
ous ! Runs away without saying a word — leaves me 
to shift for myself! Don’t you realise, sir, that she 
was paid, paid to look after me? How am I to go for 
my morning walk? This will make me seriously ill. 
I’m feeling damnable twinges already. I never heard 
of anything so heartless in all my bora days. It’s out- 
rageous, sir, positively outrageous ! I’ll put the police 
on her track! Leaves me a note to say that she has 
to run away — gives no reason — gives no address. I’ll 
report her to the nursing agency, I’ll have her cashiered. 
I never heard of anything so disgraceful in all my born 
days ! ” 

44 Did Mrs. Mannering leave any note for me?” 
interrupted Carruthers. 


n 


THE MIND-READER 


“ How do I know? D’you think I’ve had any time 
to . . . ? ” 

But Carruthers had made off to the bureau, where 
the hotel clerk handed him an envelope which he tore 
open eagerly in the privacy of a quiet comer. It con- 
tained only a little bag of dried herbs and a brief note : 
“ All night I have wrestled with temptation, Miles. I 
have fought and conquered; I will not spoil your life 
again. This little bag of herbs will explain to you 
everything. ‘ Rosemary for remembrance.’ Good- 
bye. Helen.” 

He put the bag, her bag, to his lips, and in his 
brain there was as it were .a snapping and rending of 
the stitches that bound up the wounded memory. He 
had known that little bag of dried herbs before. But 
where — where? In heaven’s name where? He felt the 
question was driving him mad — the torture was unbear- 
able. At the railway station he discovered that she 
had taken a ticket for Milan. There was no train in 
that direction until the afternoon. At Milan the trail 
would be lost. She might take train again in any one 
of a dozen directions. What could he do? 

Then the soothing shadow of the mental healer 
came over the glare in his mind, and he rowed fever- 
ishly back to Isola Salvatore. Dr. Wycherley’s eyes 
lighted up with the enthusiasm of the scientist as Car- 
ruthers explained and showed him the letter. 

“ Splendid, splendid ! ” said the doctor. “ Your ex- 
perience is the first direct evidence of the affinity theory, 
that, so far as my knowledge goes, has ever been ob- 
tained. This is well worth the trouble of the experi- 
28 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 


ment ! ” Then he added with his gentle ironic touch : 
44 The zeal of the scientist — it forgets the patient. Ex- 
cuse me, Carruthers, for my scientific selfishness. Be 
quite easy in mind. I will surely find her for you. If 
you will let me put you to sleep, it will soothe the brain.” 

46 But how can you find her ? She’s run away de- 
liberately. She’ll cover up her tracks. Oh, it’s mad- 
dening ! Preposterous ! I tell you there’s no reason to 
it. We’re made for one another — suited in every way. 
There’s nothing against me. You know that well. 
And there’s nothing on her side to keep us apart — that 
I’m sure of, positive of ! . . . How can you find her? ” 
44 The bag of herbs,” answered the doctor. 44 It is 
very personal to her — charged with her personality. 
Rolf!” 

The big shaggy-haired dog trotted up to him, wag- 
ging its tail. Dr. Wycherley looked at it eye to eye, 
and commanded sharply : 44 Sleep ! ” 

The dog’s big round eyes blinked and then closed 
down. In a few moments the animal sank to the ground 
and rolled on its side, inert. 

44 His suggestibility is very highly developed,” ex- 
plained the doctor, 44 and nowadays a mere command 
will send him into deep hypnosis. It took me a long, 
long time to train him. At one time I nearly gave it 
up in despair ; then I hit on a new way to . . . but this 
would scarcely interest you. I will just say briefly that 
in hypnosis proper the hypersesthesia of the senses is of 
the order four to seven in men and women; that is, 
their sense perceptions in many cases become four to 
seven times keener than in the normal working state. 

29 


THE MIND-READER 


That is a matter of everyday knowledge. But what is 
not generally known is the effect in the case of animals. 
I have found in them most astonishing magnification of 
the senses. I will take him to Milan and start him on 
the trail. He will succeed. Watch! ” 

He put the bag of herbs to Rolf’s nose, and the dog 
rose slowly and began with closed eyes uncannily to 
nose the garden for a trail. 

“ Stop ! ” commanded the doctor, and the dog obedi- 
ently stood still, rigid. 

“ Now let me put you to sleep,” suggested Dr. Wy- 
cherley gently, and Carruthers acquiesced. 

* # * * * * 

When Carruthers woke again he found Helen by 
his side, watching him in silence. He held out his 
arms: “ You’re back again. Thank God! ” 

“ Wait,” she said softly, “ let me explain. Don’t 
you really know me, Miles? Dr. Wycherley tells me 
you’ve forgotten, but it seems incredible. I can’t un- 
derstand how you could forget me.” 

“Miles! Why do you call me Miles?” 

“ I was your wife.” 

He looked at her in utter bewilderment, and again 
that feeling of the rending of stitches in his brain came 
over him. 

“ I was your wife,” she continued, with a softness 
in her voice that made his pulses leap. “ I was very 
young — very wilful, very foolish. If only you had 
been more patient with me — had expected less. You 
asked too much from a young girl. I wanted to grasp 
30 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 


enjoyment with both hands — to bathe in it, to take up 
great handfuls and let it trickle over me. You were 
unreasonably jealous of me. I had no harm in my 
thoughts at first. I only wanted to enjoy the good 
things of life. But your jealousy drove me to give you 
real cause for jealousy. My pride was hurt — I wanted 
to show you that other men valued me. I wanted to 
pique you and then I was carried away in a whirl of 
the senses. ...” 

44 I don’t remember anything like that. Surely 
you’re imagining ...” 

44 You divorced me.” 

44 How could I? I only met you on the lake.” 

44 You settled a sum of money on me for my main- 
tenance. I had expected to marry the man, but after 
the divorce he cooled towards me, and I realised that 
I’d been just an amusing episode to him — nothing more. 
I went away to the Continent to travel and wipe out 
the thoughts of him. Later I fell in with another man 
whom I thought I could trust, and I did trust him — im- 
plicitly. In short, he was a swindler hunting for easy 
game, and he tricked me out of the money you’d settled 
on me. That was the crowning humiliation. I hid 
myself away from my friends, took up another name, 
and set to work to make my own living.” 

44 Where’s that man who tricked you? ” asked Car- 
ruthers sharply. 

She shook her head. 44 1 doubt if you’ll ever find 
him. But what does it matter now? Let him pass.” 

44 So you took to nursing as a profession? ” 

44 Yes. It made me independent, and helped to give 

31 


THE MIND-READER 


me back some of my self-respect. I’m glad now that I 
had to turn to it. . . . When I met you here at Rovel- 
lasco I didn’t recognise you at first — you’ve changed so, 
Miles. But gradually the little mannerisms, the little 
tricks of speech, told me it was you. That evening on 
the terrace when your voice changed and your inner- 
most self came to ask me. . . . Then I knew for certain. 

. . . But it was so puzzling to me. How could you 
forget your own wife, unless it were some form of mo- 
mentary delusion? I was afraid you would awake 
presently to recognise me, and then it would mean mis- 
ery for both of us. I couldn’t trust myself to stay any 
longer near you, so I ran away. Dr. Wycherley 
traced me to Florence in some extraordinary manner, 
and when he found me he explained what had happened 
to your memories. So I came back with him.” 

“ Dear love, you’re back again. Nothing else mat- 
ters.” He held out his arms to her. 

But she drew back. “ Miles, you must realise that 
you divorced me. Whether you remember it or not, 
it’s a fact which neither of us can gloss over.” 

“ But if I don’t remember, what does it all matter? 
It may be as you say, but it doesn’t affect my feelings 
towards you in the slightest.” 

“ You divorced me for good cause. I want you to 
realise that.” 

44 1 don’t remember. Can’t you see, Helen, that I 
don’t want to remember. Someone told me that to for- 
get is to be happy. He was right. I want only you, 
Helen. You as you are to-day — as I feel and know 
you are. What has the girl you speak of to do with 
32 


THE ZEAL OF THE SCIENTIST 


the woman I love to-day? She belongs to the past — 
you belong to the present and the future. ...” 

“We have to live with our past, dear.” 

“ A horrible creed ! Let the dead past moulder 
with its dead. Say rather that we have to live with 
our future. That’s my creed, dear love. Won’t you 
make it yours ? ” 

She bent down, and his arms closed around her 
hungrily. Their lips met. 

Presently there came a discreet knock at the door, 
and the mental healer entered. There was a kindly 
smile in his eyes as he said: 

“ I see that I am soon to lose a very interesting pa- 
tient. He will no longer be coming to visit me at my 
island.” 

“ We’ll both come,” answered Helen warmly. 

“ Yes, but our compact will be ended, for he will 
have secrets now that even the zeal of the scientist must 
not intrude upon. Science must step aside — however 
unwillingly. On behalf of science, I tender a very re- 
luctant good-bye.” 

“ You’ve done so much for us, and we can’t repay 
it,” said Carruthers. 

“ I am more than repaid already,” answered Dr. 
Wycherley. “ I have learnt much from you. What 
higher reward can any scientist ask for? ” 


CHAPTER IV 


BLIND JUSTICE 

D R. WYCHERLEY’S degrees were not the Brit- 
ish degrees. In his younger days the preju- 
dice of the English medical profession against 
anything approaching hypnotism or mental suggestion 
had been intense. Many fine men of advanced thought 
had been driven out of the ranks of the profession in 
England on the score of the practice of hypnotism. 
To-day, of course, that prejudice has largely been 
overridden. The Harley Street district has its men- 
tal practitioners equally with its specialists in every 
other line of medicine and surgery. The Lancet and 
the British Medical Journal , holding the keys of the 
profession in their hands, now lend their dignified ap- 
proval to hypnotic healing. 

Hr. Wycherley’s early studies had been pursued at 
Continental cliniques, and when in later years he was 
offered the honorary degrees which Oxford and Cam- 
bridge and Edinburgh bestow on men of European rep- 
utation, he steadily refused them. His name was not 
on the British medical register; nevertheless, he kept a 
consulting-room in London, and it was his custom to 
travel there three or four times a year in order to sift 
34 


BLIND JUSTICE 


over cases which might need his very specialised help, 
and at the same time afford him new experiences in the 
work that was his life-passion. 

The rooms he occupied when in London were in 
'Adelphi Terrace, that quiet backwater not fifty yards 
from the tearing hustle of the Strand, and yet in at- 
mosphere a hundred miles away. From the window of 
his consulting-room he looked down over the soft 
greenery of the Embankment Gardens, and across the 
quiet majesty of the Thames carrying its eternal mes- 
sage from hills to sea. Beyond lay South London, a 
labyrinth of grey, pinched, huddled life, and yet so 
beautified by the mists of evening as to inspire a 
Whistler to compose a masterpiece. 

Many of Dr. Wycherley’s cases naturally came to 
him through recommendation; but others were of his 
own seeking. It was in this latter fashion that he be- 
came involved in the murder trial of the young artist 
Neil Lane, of which the inner story was never made 
public for reasons of state policy. The doctor did not 
first hear of the case through the newspapers, since he 
had a strong aversion to the frothy sensationalism and 
cheap culture of the daily papers, and rarely glanced 
at them. He heard of the case through a friend of his, 
a K. C. who held a brief for the defence, and the sum- 
mary of its strange features given to him by the bar- 
rister impelled Dr. Wycherley to attend the Old Bailey 
for the concluding day of the trial. It seemed as though 
it might hold some bearing on his own life-work. 

* * * * * * * 


35 


THE MIND-READER 


“ I will now put my client in the box,” said Hatch- 
ard, K. C., leader for the defence. 

There was an instant stir in court, a vivid quicken- 
ing of interest. The big moment of the murder trial, 
to see which fashionable spectators had schemed and ca- 
joled and bribed, was at hand. One could feel the 
blood pulsing through the court. 

Up to now the defence had proceeded on lines dull 
and unstimulating to an audience which had come to 
see a man’s soul laid naked. Witness after witness had 
been called to testify to Neil Lane’s good character 
and his more or less friendly relations with the mur- 
dered man. What more could the defence do? An 
alibi was impossible, and the finger-print evidence was 
damning. 

Never did circumstantial evidence point so clearly 
to the guilty man. Stokes had been murdered in his 
studio, stabbed in cold blood while he slept on the couch 
by his studio fire. The weapon was a narrow, vicious- 
looking thrusting sword which he had brought back 
from the East and had always kept hanging amongst 
some other Eastern trophies on the wall by the fireside. 
It had been plunged into the murdered man’s body 
again and again, and then by some strange oversight 
or queer whim on the part of the murderer had been 
carefully placed on the floor by the side of the couch, 
parallel to it. 

A friend of the artist’s, a professional model, had 
testified that on the night of the murder she had called 
at his rooms and found him alive at 11 o’clock. He 
had one of his malarial attacks coming on, and had 
36 


BLIND JUSTICE 


made up a couch, by the right-hand side of his studio 
fire, on which he was lying down. He had been drink- 
ing heavily and taking large doses of quinine, and the 
girl had found him surly and dazed and out of temper 
— in no mood for company. So at his request she had 
mixed him a stiff glass of brandy and hot water, and 
then left the studio. 

Medical evidence had placed the time of the murder 
between midnight and 2 a.m. No suspicion attached to 
the girl, who was fortunately able to account for her 
movements after 11:10 on that night. 

Between Stokes’ studio and Neil Lane’s was a trail 
via skylight, roof and parapet, which constituted the 
damning evidence of the case. It showed beyond hu- 
man doubt that a man had crept and climbed from one 
studio to the other, and back again. On the soot of 
the roof were an abundance of slipper marks and fin- 
ger-prints. Whose marks were they? 

The prosecution claimed that they were Neil Lane’s 
— had apparently proved their point up to the hilt. 
What surer evidence of guilt could be produced? 

And yet officials and spectators, in spite of the over- 
whelming logic of the situation, were impressed by the 
open, boyish, impulsive bearing of the prisoner as he 
stepped eagerly from the dock to the witness-box. Now 
at last there could be action — personal effort — instead 
of that terrible wait-and-do-nothing while witness after 
witness for the Crown had pieced together the chain 
of merciless evidence which was to hang him. 

In Neil Lane was no “ iron nerve,” no cold calcu- 
lation of demeanour. He was a mere boy fighting for 
37 


THE MIND-READER 


his life against the relentless machinery of justice — 
squaring his shoulders and taking a grip of himself in 
this last desperate effort to escape the gallows. The 
spectators quivered with the excitement of the chase, 
as when the hunted animal turns and doubles before the 
hounds close in upon him and rend him to pieces. 

44 Tell us now,” his counsel was saying, “ what you 
were doing at 9 o’clock on the night of the murder.” 

44 I was in my studio studying a history of Flemish 
art — Duchesne’s. I was tired that evening, and had 
settled down in my armchair in a dressing-gown and 
slippers.” 

44 Until what time did you read ? ” 

44 Until about 9 :30. Then Mr. Gollen came in. I 
gave him a whisky-and-soda, and we had a short chat.” 

44 How long did he stay ? ” 

44 Until about ten.” 

44 You’re certain of the time?” 

44 1 remember the clock on my mantelpiece striking 
the hour soon after he left.” 

44 Did you accompany him to the door?” 

44 No, we artists aren’t so ceremonious, and in any 
case Mr. Gollen was not a particular friend of mine. 
I hadn’t invited him in. Then I took up my book 
again.” 

44 Mr. Gollen left at once? ” 

44 1 suppose so. I heard the outer door shut to.” 

44 Now I want you to attend to this point very close- 
ly. You say that Mr. Gollen left before 10 o’clock. 
But the evidence given by Mrs. Parker puts the time 
she heard footsteps going down stairs at between 10 :30 
38 


BLIND JUSTICE 


and 10:45. Mr. Gollen has stated in evidence that he 
came to see you after he had called in on Stokes at 
9:30, that he left your rooms after 10:30, that he took 
a cab and reached his club by 11 o’clock, and that he 
stayed there playing bridge until after 4 a.m. You 
are quite positive that he left you before 10 o’clock? ” 

44 Absolutely positive. The clock struck ten after 
he went — that I swear to. Mrs. Parker must have 
been mistaken.” 

“ What did you do after he left? ” 

44 I began to read again. But I felt tired, and I 
must have dropped asleep over my book.” 

44 When did you wake again ? ” 

44 Some time in the small hours. My fire was down 
to a few dull cinders. Then I got up from my arm- 
chair, feeling a bit dazed, as one does in those circum- 
stances, and went to bed in the next room.” 

44 You were in the same chair? ” 

44 The same chair. My book had dropped on the 
floor. I had never left the chair.” 

44 You never went out on the parapet, to your 
knowledge ? ” 

44 Never, never! ” the young man cried out, turning 
an appealing face to the jury. 44 To my knowledge, 
I never stirred from the armchair! Oh, believe me, I 
never went to murder Stokes ! Why should I do such a 
thing? In Heaven’s name, why? What motive would 
I have?” His voice rang throughout the court — the 
cry of a hunted animal. 

Hatchard, K. C., mentally patted himself on the 
back for having stirred up his client to this outburst, 
39 


THE MIND-READER 


which was bound to have a sentimental effect on the 
jury. In his heart of hearts, he believed that Neil 
Lane had murdered the other man in a fit of jealous 
passion, but it is no business of the advocate to wear 
his heart upon his sleeve. 

The Judge intervened with grave impartiality. 

“ You must answer your counsel’s questions,” he 
told the young man, “ and leave it to him to make the 
appeal to the jury.” 

Hatchard resumed the examination-in-chief on lines 
which he had decided upon as the only practicable de- 
fence. In his final speech he intended to admit frankly 
that the roof and parapet markings were Neil Lane’s, 
and to urge on the jury with all the suggestive power 
of which he was such a master that the young fellow, 
walking in his sleep in his slippers and dressing-gown, 
had wandered over to the other man’s studio and back, 
but that the actual murder had been committed by some 
person unknown. 

So he sought to draw out from Lane that he was 
prone to the “ brown study ” habit, and that, in all 
probability, he was an occasional somnambulist. The 
young man eagerly gave affirmative answers to the for- 
mer line of questioning, and detailed examples of his 
absent-mindedness, but he was doubtful about the sleep- 
walking. No one had ever told him about it, and of 
course he could have no knowledge of it himself. He 
could only say that it was very probable, which the 
Judge pointed out was not evidence. 

“ You had no dreams on the night of the murder 
while you were asleep by your fire ? ” pursued counsel. 
40 


BLIND JUSTICE 


Lane put his hands to his forehead, and thought 
deeply. 

“ No,” he answered after a pause. “ No, I can’t 
remember anything. I was just asleep in the ordinary 
way. There may have been dreams, but I don’t recol- 
lect any.” 

The leader for the Crown, Garside — keen, polished, 
hard as glittering steel — rose to cross-examine. 

“ As to motive, had you no grudge against the de- 
ceased? ” 

Lane flushed perceptibly. “ He was not a particu- 
lar friend of mine, of course, but I hadn’t any actual 
grudge against him.” 

“ I put it to you that your affections and his were 
centred on the same young lady, and that her prefer- 
ence lay in his direction.” 

“ That’s true, of course, but it doesn’t mean what 
you imply.” 

“ I put it to you that heated words had passed be- 
tween you on the subject.” 

The young man clenched his hands impotently. 

“ Oh, be fair to me ! I admit we had a few words 
on the matter, but that’s utterly different from creep- 
ing into a man’s rooms at dead of night and murdering 
him in cold blood ! ” 

“ That is a matter for the jury to decide,” answered 
the prosecuting counsel coldly. Then he continued 
with his merciless probing. “ You had threatened to 
kick the deceased out of your mutual artists’ club on 
one occasion ? ” 

“ He had been publicly talking of the lady, I don’t 
41 


THE MIND-READER 


want to mention her name, in a way no man with any 
decent feeling could stand, and naturally I resented it.” 

“ Precisely. You felt you had a claim on her af- 
fections.” 

“ No, not a claim, though certainly I had some en- 
couragement. But for that matter there were others 
who had a deep admiration for her as well as myself — 
Gollen for one.” 

“ The point is immaterial. Now, to take up a dif- 
ferent matter. When Mr. Gollen was in your rooms 
that evening, you gave him a whisky-and-soda ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did you drink yourself? ” 

“ As a matter of civility, yes. But I only had a 
small drop of whisky.” 

“ Was the whisky left within your reach after he 
had gone ? ” 

“ I suppose so, but I never touched it again. I ex- 
pect I was too tired or too lazy to put it away. But 
really I didn’t take more than one small glass.” 

“ Have you never taken more than one small glass 
of an evening? ” 

“ I wasn’t drunk, if you mean that ! ” answered 
Lane indignantly. 

The Judge interposed gravely: 

“ You must answer counsel’s question.” 

“ Well, yes, I suppose I have, occasionally — when 
there has been a jollification on.” 

“ Then there was nothing to prevent you taking 
more than one glass on the night of the murder? ” 

“ I tell you I didn’t ! ” 


4,2 


BLIND JUSTICE 


“ Is it your habit to fall asleep in your armchair? ” 

“ Oh, no. Sometimes I get into a brown study, but 
I don’t fall asleep in my chair and stop there till the 
small hours of the morning. I don’t know why I did 
on the night of the murder. Heaven knows I wish I 
had gone out on the bust, or something, so that I could 
prove an alibi.” 

“ You admit that you sometimes 4 go out on the 
bust,’ as you term it? ” 

“ I don’t admit it at all ! ” Lane, deadly pale, was 
beginning to contradict himself, and Garside, K. C., 
gave a significant look towards the jury. Feeling was 
turning against the prisoner once more — to the facts 
of the case had been added the probable motive and 
igniting spark. 

“ When you have 6 gone out on the bust,’ I take it 
that you have come home the worse for liquor?” 

Hatchard jumped up instantly: 

“ M’lord, I object to that question! ” 

The Judge allowed his objection, but an impression 
had been created in the minds of the jury which no 
formal ruling-out could efface. 

Garside adjusted his glasses before making his final 
merciless stab. Pointing dramatically at the prisoner 
with outstretched finger, he demanded: 

“ Tell us now why, if you were not the worse for 
liquor on the night of the murder — why you scorched 
the left-hand side of your dressing-gown by the dead 
man’s fire as you stood silently by his couch looking 
down upon him with the sword ready to thrust ? ” 

43 


THE MIND-READER 


A shiver went through the court at the picture con- 
jured up bj the advocate’s grim words. 

Then a warder hastened forward to the prisoner’s 
side ; he had fainted. 

From the body of the court a man in a long fur 
coat, with grave, dark eyes and silvery hair, moved 
swiftly towards the witness box. 

“ I am a doctor,” he said. “ My name is Wycher- 
ley. Can I be of assistance ? ” 

******* 

The speeches for the defence and for the prosecu- 
tion had been made: on the one hand eloquent, impas- 
sioned, appealing to the heart; and on the other hand 
cold, hard, mercilessly logical, appealing to the intel- 
lect. The Judge had given his summing-up, clear-cut 
and instinct with the impartiality of British justice, 
but pointing out emphatically that no shred of evidence 
had been adduced by the defence to place the murder 
on to another man’s shoulders. 

When the jury filed back slowly and gravely into 
their box after the long wait, everyone in court could 
see the verdict in their faces. The prisoner went white 
at his first sight of them. 

“ What is your verdict, gentlemen — guilty or not 
guilty? ” 

“ Guilty, my lord ; but we strongly recommend him 
to mercy.” 

The chaplain moved to the Judge’s side. The clerk 
of arraigns stood up and pronounced the solemn, for- 
mal question: 

44 


BLIND JUSTICE 


“ Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say 
why sentence of death should not be passed upon you? ” 

Neil Lane squared his shoulders and looked the 
Judge in the face, eye to eye, as man to man. 

“ My lord,” said he, and his voice rang through 
the court and into men’s hearts, “ I ask for no 6 mercy ’ 
of the usual kind. I am innocent, but I would far 
rather hang by the neck till I am dead than endure the 
hell of penal servitude for life. As you will one day 
stand before your God, my lord, be merciful and give 
me death ! ” 

The Judge took up the black cap placed by his desk. 


CHAPTER V 


THE ERRAND OF DEATH 


D URING the days that followed Neil Lane’s con- 
viction there were curious rumours current in 
legal and newspaper circles. Naturally the 
defence had lodged a formal appeal, and the rumours 
took the shape that some new and wholly unexpected 
evidence would be brought before the Judges of the 
Appeal Court when the case came up for hearing after 
the customary fortnight. 

As with the breed of rumours, they assumed most 
explicit and circumstantial form as they passed from 
mouth to mouth. The actual murder had been the 
work of a woman, a jealous mistress. Lane had seen 
her in the dead man’s studio on the fateful night, and 
was shielding her by his silence. Stricken with remorse, 
she had made a confession to her priest, whose religion 
forbade him to make known her identity. But the po- 
lice were on her track. And so forth. 

The real basis of these fantastic stories lay with 
Dr. Xavier Wycherley. He had attended the court in 
pursuit of his life-study, the human mind, the psycho- 
logical springs of action, but in the course of the trial 
overwhelming conviction had come upon him of the in- 
nocence of Neil Lane. As a humanitarian, he felt im- 
46 


THE ERRAND OF DEATH 


pelled to do what lay within his power for the young 
man. 

He was now endeavouring to persuade the Judges 
of the Appeal Court to step outside the grooves of 
British justice and create a precedent of a kind that 
struck the legal mind with horror. Thoroughly con- 
vinced himself of the young man’s innocence, he had 
first to carry his conviction into the minds of the two 
opposing counsel, and then to arrange an interview of 
a most unprecedented and entirely unofficial nature in 
the chambers of the Master of the Rolls. 

Only his intense conviction, his magnetic personal- 
ity, and his European reputation had made such an 
interview possible for a moment. 

Lord Thorndyke paced his hearthrug uneasily when 
he had listened to the doctor’s astonishing theory of 
the crime. The two counsel, Hatchard and Garside, 
sat silent, with faces composed to legal inscrutability. 

“ But even granted that your theory were correct, 
Doctor,” Lord Thorndyke was saying, “ how would 
that help matters? The law cannot take cognisance 
of the action of one human mind on another. If we 
once admitted such action, we should be plunged back 
in the old days of witchcraft and the legal horrors of 
the Middle Ages. Suppose that you could even bring 
evidence of a kind that gave colour to your supposition 
— what follows? This man, Neil Lane, with an admit- 
ted jealousy towards the murdered artist, is stirred up 
to action in the hypnotic state, and climbs over the roof 
to kill in actuality the man whom in the ordinary way 
he would only have killed in thought. But the law can 
47 


THE MIND-READER 


only deal with the facts of the case; the psychological 
springs of action are outside its purview, except in so 
far as they mitigate punishment. The law says that 
he who kills must suffer the penalty of the law, whether 
he kills in rage and passion, or in cold blood, or under 
the stimulus of another.” 

Dr. Wycherley concentrated his keen, penetrating 
gaze on the finely chiselled face of the old jurist. His 
voice was low and even, but intense in its sincerity. 

“ Suppose,” he replied, “ that Neil Lane had no in- 
tention of killing — did not kill? ” 

“ The jury found otherwise.” 

“ The jury could only deal with the facts before 
them. Grant me this experiment, and who can tell 
what utterly unsuspected fact might not be brought to 
light? You, men of the law, have had a lifelong train- 
ing in the marshalling and judging of the seen and the 
tangible. I, on the other hand, have had a lifelong 
training in the judging of the unseen and the intangible. 

“ I say this, with my reputation at stake, that there 
are unsuspected factors in the case that, so far, have 
not been touched by the counsel for the defence and 
prosecution, anxious as both of them are that justice 
shall be done. I know, as surely as I know that I live, 
there is that to bring to light which only experiment 
can give us. Lord Thomdyke, I ask only for an en- 
tirely unofficial experiment. Whatever its results may 
be, their bearing and interpretation will be left un- 
questioningly in the hands of yourself and your col- 
leagues on the bench. In the name of justice and hu- 
manity, I ask for this. It may mean a man’s life.” 
48 


THE ERRAND OF DEATH 


The Master of the Rolls paced up and down in si- 
lence, his forehead furrowed in thought. When at 
length he spoke it was to the counsel for the defence. 

“ Have I your assurance,” he asked, “ that the ex- 
periment will not be made public, or used for any pur- 
pose without the express consent of myself and my 
colleagues ? ” 

“ Certainly, m’lord. We are all agreed upon that 
essential. On no account must a precedent be created.” 

“ Then,” said the old jurist thoughtfully, “ I will 
put the matter before my colleagues.” 

* * * * * * # 

Dr. Wycherley had gained his point. The experi- 
ment had been sanctioned. 

Singly and in perfect secrecy, so as to keep the 
matter away from the avid newspapers, the several par- 
ticipants in the coming proceedings had gathered to- 
gether in Neil Lane’s studio — the Master of the Rolls, 
the two counsel, an independent medical specialist, the 
prisoner and a Scotland Yard man in charge of him, 
and Dr. Wycherley. Round the studio buildings had 
been posted plainclothes men to prevent any interrup- 
tion on the one hand, or any attempt at escape on the 
other. 

It was ten o’clock in the evening. Everything had 
been arranged to repeat the conditions of the night of 
the murder. Sitting by his studio-fire, in his old arm- 
chair, with his old dressing-gown and his slippers on, 
sat Neil Lane, studying Duchesne’s “ History of the 
Flemish School.” A single shaded reading-lamp by his 
49 


THE MIND-READER 


side lit up his book ; in the outer darkness of the room 
sat the spectators, in agreement to keep perfect silence 
and allow Dr. Wycherley’s experiment the fairest pos- 
sible test. 

In the studio of the murdered man, in the neigh- 
bouring house, a fire blazed and a dummy form lay 
stretched upon the couch. 

For a full hour they allowed the condemned man to 
read on, so as to let the environment soak into his 
spirit once more and prepare the mind for the hypnotic 
operation. Dr. Wycherley, sitting in the outer dark- 
ness, had been spending the waiting moments in making 
his delicate little left-hand miniatures of Lane, of Lord 
Thorndyke and of the two counsel, drawn from his 
memory of the scene in court. These would afterwards 
be filed away amongst the records of his cases. Now 
the mental healer moved forward to a place by Neil’s 
side, and asked him to fix his gaze and his full powers 
of concentration on himself. It was highly necessary 
for the experiment that the patient should be sent into 
deep hypnosis, and accordingly Dr. Wycherley put 
aside his usual methods of verbal suggestion, and em- 
ployed with all the power at his command the intensive 
gaze and the slow hypnotic passes of the older school 
of mesmerists. 

In half an hour Neil’s eyes had closed, and his arm 
stood out rigidly when Dr. Wycherley raised it to a 
horizontal position. The medical witness came forward 
with the jurists, and made the usual needle insertions 
in the arm and the light flashes into the eyes, so as to 
50 


THE ERRAND OF DEATH 


test the depth of the hypnosis. With a curt nod the 
specialist expressed his satisfaction at the tests. 

Dr. Wycherley put his hand on the sleeping man’s 
forehead. 

46 It is ten o’clock on the night of the murder. Tell 
me all that happened after that.” 

It was a strange, mechanical, far-away voice that 
replied to him from the body of Neil Lane: 

44 I take up my book and begin to read again. 
Presently my thoughts wander, and I fall into a brown 
study. Somehow I seem to feel in a vague way that a 
man has entered the room and is standing silently by 
my side. I do not feel it with my mind, but in a kind 
of unconscious way. I know that he is making passes 
over me, but yet I am not sufficiently awake to resist 
him. Now I seem to feel myself falling under the power 
of his mind — it is as though his mind were entering into 
my brain and taking possession of it, side by side with 
my own mind.” 

44 Do you know who the man is ? ” 

44 Now I know that he is Gollen.” 

44 Does he speak to you?” 

44 Yes ; he tells me to obey him, and have no fear. 
He tells me to stand up, and I do so. He tells me to 
turn out my lamp, and I do so. Now he tells me that 
at midnight I am to climb over the roof to Stokes’ 
studio, and kill him. I am horrified at the idea, and I 
try to resist his suggestion. I tell him that I would 
never do such a thing.” 

44 What happens then? ” 

44 He tells me that he was only joking, and that I 

51 


THE MIND-READER 


ought to laugh at the joke. I believe him, so I laugh. 
Now he tells me that Stokes is very ill, and is lying 
down on his couch by the studio-fire. Unless he is 
tended he will become worse, and the fault will be mine. 
I feel sorry for Stokes. Now Gollen tells me that I 
ought to go at midnight and tend him. I reply that 
I will go. He gives me detailed instructions as to what 
I am to do, and leaves me.” 

44 What is the time? ” 

44 It is just after 10:30.” 

44 Do you see this clock on the mantelpiece? ” 

With closed eyes the young man turned his head 
towards the mantelpiece, and replied : 

44 1 see it.” 

44 When it strikes midnight you will do exactly as 
you did on the night of the murder.” 

44 1 will do so.” 

The reading-lamp began to waver and flutter, and, 
with a gasp, went out. The room was plunged into 
darkness, except for the eerie flickering of the firelight 
which showed the watchers dimly to one another. They 
kept a strained silence whilst the clock ticked its weary 
way to midnight. 

As twelve o’clock struck the sleeping figure in the 
armchair rose up, and with sightless eyes began to move 
quickly to the window leading out to the parapet. The 
Scotland Yard detective responsible for the safety of 
the condemned man kept close behind him, ready to 
catch him should he slip on the parapet or roof. 

In a whisper Dr. Wycherley suggested to the others 
that they should go round to the dead man’s studio by 
52 


THE ERRAND OF DEATH 


the usual entrance. As they arrived hurriedly there 
was a noise heard on the roof, and Neil Lane made his 
way in by the skylight. 

He came to the middle of the room and stared about 
him with sightless eyes. The watchers shivered at the 
uncanny deftness of this ghostlike shell of a man with 
his automaton mind. 

“ Who is in the room? ” asks Dr. Wycherley. 

“ Stokes.” 

“ Where is he?” 

“ Gollen told me that he is lying down on his couch 
by the fire.” 

“ Is there no one else in the room?” 

“ No one else.” 

Lord Thorndyke flicked thumb and fore-finger 
lightly together — a mannerism of his denoting that 
things were turning out much as he expected. But Neil 
Lane apparently did not hear him or know that there 
were watchers of his movements. He went over to the 
fire, and then moved near to it a small table holding 
a bottle of brandy, glasses, and a packet of quinine 
powder. 

“ Why are you moving the table? ” asked Dr. Wy- 
cherley at this unexpected action. 

The even, mechanical voice of the sleeping man an- 
swered him : “ Because Gollen told me that Stokes had 
moved his couch to where the fireplace used to be, and 
the fireplace to where the couch used to be. . . . ” 

Lord Thorndyke drew in his breath sharply and 
moved involuntarily forward. 

“ . . . And so I am taking the table nearer to 

53 


THE MIND-READER 


Stokes’ couch in case he were to wake up in the night 
and want medicine or drink.” 

Neil Lane went to the wall and placed his hand on 
a narrow, vicious-looking thrusting sword hanging with 
some other Eastern trophies. 

“ What are you doing now? ” 

“ Gollen told me that I would find the poker hang- 
ing on the wall. I am to take it down and poke the 
fire into a big blaze, so that the sick man may have 
warmth.” 

The sleeping man took down the sword, handling it 
as if it were indeed a poker, and started to thrust it 
vigorously again and again into the dummy form lying 
on the couch. 

“ What are you doing now? ” 

“ I am poking the fire into a blaze, as Gollen told 
me to do. That will make Stokes comfortable for the 
night, so now I can go back to my rooms.” 

Placing the sword upon the ground, nearly parallel 
with the couch, as though he were laying it on a fen- 
der, Neil Lane moved across to the skylight and began 
to climb out, still with sightless eyes. 

Lord Thorndyke whispered to Dr. Wycherley : 66 On 
the morning the murder was discovered the sword was 
also found lying parallel to the couch. It was an ex- 
traordinary detail.” 

“ And such details are evidence of the highest 
value,” answered the doctor. “ In thinking over what 
you have seen to-night, I would ask you particularly to 
realise this fact of mental science : that no man or wom- 
an can be influenced in a single hypnotic trance to do 
54 


THE ERRAND OF DEATH 


what is contrary to his or her moral sense. This man 
Gollen must have been aware of the fact. He made 
no persistent attempt, judging from what we have seen 
to-night, to induce young Lane to murder Stokes. He 
avoided that by a subterfuge. He sent Lane on an er- 
rand of death which was ostensibly an errand of mercy.’* 

44 I realise that,” was the reply of Lord Thorndyke, 
as he stood looking at the scene of the murder with 
thoughtful eyes. 44 1 fully realise that. But the legal 
question raised is one which requires the gravest con- 
sideration. To admit as evidence what we have seen 
to-night would create a most dangerous precedent. I 
will confess to you that at the moment I cannot see 
what I am to do in the matter, unless it is contrived to 
alter Lane’s sentence to one of penal servitude.” 

44 An innocent man ! ” 

44 It is a tangle apparently without a reasonable 
solution,” mused the Master of the Rolls. 

Dr. Wycherley said no more, judging it best to 
leave the affair to the large-minded sympathies of the 
jurist. 

But the morning brought a most unexpected solu- 
tion to the problem, cutting clean the Gordian knot. 
Breaking through his usual rule by glancing at a daily 
newspaper, Dr. Wycherley’s eye was caught by an item 
of exceptional interest. A brief paragraph told that 
one of the chief witnesses in the Neil Lane case, a Mr. 
Gollen, had been dangerously injured in a taxi-cab ac- 
cident while driving to Charing Cross Station to catch 
a Continental express. He was now lying in Charing 
55 


THE MIND-READER 


Cross Hospital, and his condition was considered ex- 
tremely grave. 

At once the doctor left his breakfast untouched 
and hurried off to the hospital. Pleading matters of 
the utmost urgency, he asked the house-surgeon in 
charge for a brief private interview with the dying man. 

Gollen, swathed in bandages, greeted Dr. Wycher- 
ley with a cynical smile. 44 Another of you special- 
ists?” he enquired banteringly. 44 You’re all no use; 
I know that quite well. My number’s up. But don’t 
imagine for a moment that I’m afraid of death.” 

Dr. Wycherley gazed at him with his keen, earnest 
look, and answered very quietly : 44 Few men are afraid 
of death — only of the life after death.” 

Gollen, suddenly sobered, nodded his head in agree- 
ment, but then added : 44 I’m not a 4 religious ’ man. I 
don’t believe in your heaven or hell.” 

44 Is it your belief that the ego will live on after 
death? ” 

44 That I do believe. It’s only my earthly body 
that I am going to shed.” 

44 Then are you not afraid of meeting Neil Lane in 
the life hereafter? ” 

44 Neil Lane — what the devil do you mean? ” blus- 
tered the dying man. 

44 My poor fellow,” answered Dr. Wycherley with 
a note of real pity in his voice, 44 1 know all that you 
have been trying to conceal. No one can touch you 
now; the law is impotent. But will you choose to go 
to your new life with a double crime shackled to your 
soul — first Stokes, and now that poor boy who stood 
56 


THE ERRAND OF DEATH 


in the dock to receive his death sentence for the crime 
he had never dreamt of committing.” 

“ Stokes deserved all he got and more ! ” was the 
bitter answer. “ I knew him in the East, and he was a 
devil. He gave me full cause. Yes; he was better out 
of the world.” 

“ But Neil Lane ! What harm did Neil Lane do to 
you? Can you bear to face him in the hereafter? 
When you have fled to the uttermost ends of space, and 
he pursues you still — out in the black void where no 
star gleams, beyond where the comets wheel on their 
courses — when his soul and yours come face to face, 
what will you say to him ? ” 

The dying man kept silence while the clock ticked 
through a full minute. Then he turned to the doctor 
and said : “ I suppose you want me to sign a confes- 
sion ? ” 

“ Yes ; for your own sake as much as for Neil 
Lane’s.” 

“ Well, perhaps you are right. Bring me pen and 
paper.” 

With a firm hand he wrote a few lines, and placed 
below them a signature of characteristic decisiveness. 

The true story of the murder of Stokes was never 
made public in court — the hypnotic experiment was too 
dangerous a legal precedent to be published at large. 
But at the Court of Appeal it was put in evidence that 
Gollen had signed a death-bed confession of guilt; and 
in due course the announcement was made that his 
Majesty the King had been graciously pleased to ex- 
tend a free pardon to Neil Lane. 

57 


CHAPTER VI 


A ROYAL COMMAND 


H OME with Dr. Wycherley was always the island 
and his beloved garden. Next after the study 
of mind he loved trees — looked upon them al- 
most as his children. The wonderful collection of trees 
and shrubs on Isola Salvatore was a never-ending 
source of delight and pride to him. 

At the moment when the call to Pfalzburg reached 
him, the doctor was just preparing to plant in the gar- 
den of spices a consignment of seedlings from Celebes 
with the minute care they demanded. He had been 
looking forward to the arrival and planting of the new- 
comers with the keenest pleasure. But there was grave 
urgency behind the cold formality of this royal call, 
and so he must needs put the anticipated pleasure aside 
and leave his new children to the care of his gardener. 

In translation, this was the message brought to Dr. 
Wycherley by a young officer of the royal household : 


Pfalzburg, May 20, 19 — 

I am commanded by His Majesty the King to re- 
quest your presence at the earliest possible moment at 
the Palace of Pfalzburg. His Majesty desires to con- 

Sult y ° U - Von Olmutz 

(Chancellor of the Kingdom of Varovia.) 
58 


A ROYAL COMMAND 


The young officer who had conveyed the message to 
Isola Salvatore now sat in a chair, considering, with a 
slight frown, the polish of his boots. The dust of travel 
was upon them, and it seemed to irk him. 

Dr. Wycherley, reluctantly deciding to leave the 
engrossing occupation of cradling the new seedlings, 
asked of him : “ Do you know how' the trains run ? ” 

With military precision the young lieutenant drew 
out his pocket-book and read in formal, precise tones : 
“ Train from Rovellasco to Brescia at 4 :10. Change 
at Brescia into Milan-Venice train de luxe. Change at 
Verona into Munich wagon-lit. Change at Munich into 
Dresden train de luxe. Change at Dresden into Pfalz- 
burg express. Wires ready to send to stationmaster at 
Milan, Verona, Munich and Dresden to reserve special 
compartments. Dinner on the Munich train ; breakfast 
at Munich; lunch on Dresden train.” He closed the 
book and returned it to his pocket. 

Dr. Wycherley felt urged to stick a mental pin into 
this very precise young man. Accordingly he asked: 
“ Isn’t there one point you have overlooked? ” 

“ So?” 

“ Our local trains to Brescia are uncertain. We 
might miss the connection.” 

The officer gravely drew out his pocket-book again 
and read : “ Emergency wire to stationmaster at Bres- 
cia to prepare special train for Verona. Emergency 
wire to divisional superintendent at Verona to clear the 
line for special train for Munich.” He returned the 
book to his pocket. 

“ But that would leave us without dinner anywhere.” 
59 


THE MIND-READER 


Food was a matter Dr. Wycherley gave no concern 
to ; he was merely testing this very precise young man. 

For the third time the young officer took out his 
pocket-book. 

“ Emergency wire to Hotel Porta Nuova at Verona. 
Make up best possible dinner for two, and put on 
special train for Munich.” 

Dr. Wycherley acknowledged defeat with a smile. 

“ That is the way Von Moltke won his battles.” 

The young lieutenant took the compliment with the 
slightest change of expression, and replied: “ Naturally 
one is always prepared.” 

But on the long journey to Pfalzburg, Fritz von 
Lindenau relaxed a little and told the doctor much that 
he wanted to know of the King Sigmund V’s family 
history, together with his own hopes and ambitions and 
such of his love affairs as could be related without ex- 
tensive editing. 

Two points von Lindenau had impressed on Dr. 
Wycherley as being of special importance. The one 
was that the King desired absolute secrecy, and that it 
would be advisable for the doctor to pass under another 
name at Pfalzburg. The second, that the King was 
quick-tempered and irritable — just as his father, Sig- 
mund IV, had been — and that it would be advisable to 
humour his caprices. “ They are a queer family,” 
commented the young officer, with the familiarity born 
of his knowledge of Court. 

They did not proceed to the central terminus at 
Pfalzburg, but alighted at Pfalzburg West and drove 
in a closed carriage to the palace, which is perched high 
60 


A ROYAL COMMAND 


above the city. Without delay, Dr. Wycherley was 
introduced into the King’s private cabinet. 

Sigmund V was a man of about forty-five, somewhat 
small and wizened when seen at close quarters. His of- 
ficial portraits, taken on occasions of State ceremony, 
decidedly flattered him. His forehead, viewed with- 
out the covering of the eagled helmet, was narrow and 
receding, and his eyes were ferrety. Further, there was 
a nervous twitching of the scalp during conversation 
which was highly unpleasant. 

44 Sit down, sit down, Dr. Wycherley,” said the 
King in rapid German. 44 I thought von Olmiitz would 
have met you at the station. You must have missed 
one another, missed one another. Hope you had a 
good journey.” Then, without waiting for any reply 
to this perfunctory remark : 44 1 sent for you in the first 
place because I don’t trust any of these Pfalzburg 
specialists ; in the second place, because this is a matter 
on which I want absolute secrecy. You understand, 
you understand ? ” 

44 Your Majesty can rely on my entire discretion.” 

44 It’s more than that, more than that. I don’t 
want anybody to know that you have even been called 
in to advise. No advertisement out of this, you under- 
stand, you understand? ” 

Sigmund V had never been renowned for his tact. 
Such a remark, to a man of Dr. Wycherley’s tempera- 
ment — a man who neither sought notoriety nor valued 
it one jot — was almost an insult. But the doctor re- 
plied courteously: 

44 You need have no fear, sir. 

61 


Whether I take up 


THE MIND-READER 


this case or not, the matter will remain entirely secret 
with me.” 

The King raised his eyebrows at Dr. Wycherley’s 
suggestion that he might not take up the case, but there 
was only a grave seriousness in the doctor’s steady gaze. 
So he continued: 

46 You know, of course, that my only son, the Crown 
Prince Karel, is affianced to the Grand Duchess Irma 
of Weissenrode-Hohenstein. The marriage is to take 
place in three days, in three days. A very suitable alli- 
ance, very suitable in every way. Politically it is vital 
to the well-being of Varovia. My son and the Grand 
Duchess are in love with one another, and so everything 
is plain sailing, plain sailing.” 

44 And what are the objections he has suddenly de- 
veloped? ” 

44 1 didn’t say he had any objections. Morbid fan- 
cies — that’s all they are, morbid fancies.” The King’s 
scalp twitched angrily. 44 So I want you to talk to 
him, and reason him out of them. It’s a matter of the 
utmost importance to get this nonsense out of his head. 
That’s why I sent for you. Heard of your powers* 
heard of your powers.” 

44 Is the Crown Prince willing to see me on the mat- 
ter? The point is important.” 

44 Quite willing, quite willing. No difficulty on that 
score. In fact, the whole matter is perfectly simple if 
it’s approached in the right way. ... Of course you 
must handle him tactfully,” added the tactless King. 

It was abundantly clear to Dr. Wycherley that any 
difference of opinion between father and son could eas- 
62 


A ROYAL COMMAND 


ily be widened out into a definite breach. But they 
would hardly call in a doctor from half across Europe 
merely to smooth over a family quarrel. Matters must 
be more serious than the King’s words implied. 

“ When can I see the Crown Prince ? ” asked Dr. 
Wycherley. 

“ Now, of course. No time to lose, no time to lose.” 
He pressed an electric bell. “ Lieutenant von Lindenau 
will show you to my son’s study. It’s all arranged; 
he’s waiting for you. It’s vital for the welfare of the 
kingdom that this morbid nonsense should be reasoned 
out of him. But it’s got to be done tactfully. By the 
way, your name in Pfalzburg will be Herr Muller. 
You understand, you understand? ” 

The Crown Prince rose from his study armchair to 
greet Dr. Wycherley. Between father and son there 
was a striking contrast. Prince Karel was tall and 
well-built, and his features were moulded on stronger 
lines than his father’s. Altogether there was a breadth 
of thought behind the boy which was lacking in the 
King. But the point which riveted Dr. Wycherley’s 
attention were the eyes, deep-set and with a haunting 
melancholy in them. While the body was the body of 
an athlete, the mind was the mind of a dreamer. 

He spoke in excellent English — accounted for by 
the souvenirs of Balliol which hung on the walls of his 
study side by side with the souvenirs of Bonn — and 
with a voice very pleasant to the ear. 

“ It was good of you to make this long journey on 
my account at such short notice,” he said as he shook 


THE MIND-READER 


hands. 44 Did Fritzi look after your comforts prop- 
erly ? ” 

44 He is a model organiser,” answered Dr. Wycher- 
ley, smilingly. 44 If he should be lucky enough to get 
into a war, he will go far. Put him in control of rail- 
way transport, your Royal Highness.” 

44 Yes, Fritzi is a good fellow, and cleverer than 
most people think. Did he tell you much about my- 
self? ” 

44 Only what is to your credit. Now I see that he 
suppressed little.” 

Prince Karel shook his head smilingly in deprecia- 
tion of the compliment. Then his eyes grew grave 
again, and he replied, with a deep sadness in his voice : 
44 That little is vital.” 

44 Tell me what is troubling you.” 

44 1 fear there is no help that you — or any medical 
man — can give, but my father insisted on having your 
professional advice.” 

44 Perhaps the matter is less vital than you think. 
You have been brooding deeply over it. That is al- 
ways liable to make the little loom large. Will your 
Royal Highness give me your hand, so that I may sense 
the radical or the trivial of your trouble ? 99 

The Prince extended his hand, and Dr. Wycherley 
took it in his own cool, firm grasp. For many mo- 
ments he continued to hold it, while he looked deep into 
the eyes of Prince Karel. At length he said, very 
gravely : 

44 What grounds have you for supposing it? ” 

44 Ah, you have guessed ? ” 

64 


A ROYAL COMMAND 


“ I have sensed.” 

“ The very strongest of grounds — what lies hidden 
in myself. Ever since I was a boy I have been subject 
to long fits of melancholy — times when I felt that I 
would like to slip out of this world of mine and bury 
myself in a hermit’s cell. But during the last twelve 
months the feeling has slowly changed to another and 
a very terrible one. When the fits come upon me, I 
now feel an unaccountable rage stealing inside my brain 
and gaining possession of my mind. Heaven knows I 
have struggled against it, but I seem powerless to con- 
trol the impulse. I see red ; I strike out blindly in my 
rage; I scarcely know what I do! When I have felt 
this evil obsession coming upon me, I have asked Fritz! 
to stand by me and see that no harm happens. He’s 
a good fellow, Fritzi, and he has stood by me. Except 
my father and the Chancellor, no one else but Fritzi 
knows. I sometimes wonder if the others suspect . . . 

“ Last week he was called away, and when he was 
absent a fit of this strange, sudden anger came upon 
me. I was alone in his study with my favourite dog. 
. . . When I had recovered my senses the dog was ly- 
ing on the hearthrug — there, there ! — with his head 
smashed in ! The poker was red with blood ! ” He 
shuddered at the recollection. 66 My poor, faithful 
dog — I can’t bear to think of it ! ” 

66 When you became engaged to the Grand Duch- 
ess .. . ” 

“ I didn’t know then what I know now. It is only 
lately that I have realised it to the full. At that time 
I used to think that the fits of melancholy had no 
65 


THE MIND-READER 


special significance. But now I know, and the knowl- 
edge is burning into me like vitriol! I love her, Dr. 
Wycherley, I love her passionately! I wouldn’t have 
harm or sorrow come to her for the world! Oh, God, 
what am I to do — what am I to do ? ” 

“ There are many cases such as yours which have 
yielded to psychotherapeutic treatment,” answered Dr. 
Wycherley, with deep sympathy in his voice. “ Time 
is required, naturally, and it would not be difficult to 
arrange that an accident — say, a broken leg — should 
confine you to your room and postpone the marriage. 
In a couple of months’ time I could give you a more 
definite opinion. Without wishing to raise false hopes 
in you, I will say that there is decidedly the possibility 
of complete cure. Where there is no strong family 
taint ...” 

The young Prince had been listening to Dr. Wy- 
cherley’s kindly words with hope dawning in his eyes, 
but at the last sentence he interrupted fiercely with: 
“Wait till you hear the worst! You know of my 
grandfather’s death?” 

“ I know, of course, that King Sigmund IV died of 
acute scarlet fever, and that he lies buried in the family 
tomb here in Pfalzburg.” 

“ A dummy form lies buried there. My grand- 
father is alive ! ” 

“ But ” 

“ Alive and a raving madman ! No one knew but 
the doctor who attended him, now dead, and his 
keepers,” continued the Prince rapidly. “ The secret 
has been well guarded. Four days ago I discovered 
66 


A ROYAL COMMAND 


it by the merest accident. I was out hunting in a dis- 
tant part of the forest at one of our country estates; 
I became separated from the others and lost my bear- 
ings. At nightfall I came to a forester’s hut and en- 
tered it to get refreshment and ask my way. For some 
reason the people of the house were away at the moment, 
and I unlocked a door in order to find food. As I 
struck a match in that dark room, the light fell on a 
man, with a long grey beard, chained down on to a bed. 
It was my grandfather! It was six years since I had 
last seen him, but it was he — that I will swear to ! ” 
He covered his face with his hands to shut out the hor- 
rible vision he had conjured up. 

“ Is there no possibility that your Royal Highness 
was mistaken? ” 

“ My father denies it ; they all deny it. But it was 
he — he called me by a pet name that my grandfather 
had used for me when I was a little child ... I quite rec- 
ognise the political necessity of keeping his madness se- 
cret and pretending his death. We have not been a 
popular dynasty, and the Socialist Party has been grow- 
ing very powerful in Varovia. If it had been known 
that Sigmund IV was not merely eccentric, but actually 
insane, there would have been a revolution. Of course, 
I would not be telling of this unless I had absolute con- 
fidence in your discretion.” 

“ All that you tell me will be absolutely safe with 
me. But, once again, there is no possibility of a mis- 
take? ” 

“ None whatever. ... I believe the keeping of that 
ghastly secret killed my mother. . . .Now you can 
67 


THE MIND-READER 


realise my feelings, with my marriage only a few days 
distant. On the one hand the duty to my dynasty and 
my country ; on the other hand the duty to the woman 
I love and the children that may be ours. Tell me, 
Doctor, which duty is the greater?” 

Dr. Wycherley turned to the window and looked out 
over the red roofs and the fretted spires of Pfalzburg 
for some moments before answering. Then he said 
slowly : “ The marriage must not take place.” 

The young Prince replied sadly : “ Ah, you tell me 
what my own conscience also tells me ! ” 

66 Your Royal Highness will be able to do your duty 
by your country without marrying the Grand Duchess. 
Under treatment, that unfortunate tendency you speak 
of may probably be eliminated — certainly kept in 
check. I see no reason why you may not be, when the 
time comes, the best king that Yarovia has ever had.” 

“ And the succession? ” 

“ That consideration must be put aside for the 
present.” 

“ But what am I to say to the woman I love? The 
truth will break her heart.” 

“ I fear I cannot advise in that. You will know her 
feelings far better than I.” 

Prince Karel rose from his chair with a steady 
determination in his eyes. “ I thank you, Dr. Wycher- 
ley — I thank you sincerely. I know you have been 
summoned here to persuade me into a marriage from 
which my conscience revolts. As you have done your 
higher duty, so will I do mine. Let us come to my 
father and tell him.” 


68 


CHAPTER VII 


THE DECISION 

W ITH the King was the Chancellor, von 01- 
miitz, a man of sixty — stout, bland, smiling, 
outwardly the personification of easy good 
nature. Someone in speaking of him to Bismarck had 
used the epithet 44 oily.” Bismarck’s reply had come 
curt and to the point : 44 Oiled steel ! ” For twenty 
years von Olmiitz had stood behind the throne of Var- 
ovia and moved the hands and lips of its kings. 

Introduced to the doctor, he greeted him with a 
well-turned compliment: 44 When his Majesty asked me 
a few days ago who was the foremost mental healer in 
Europe, I replied : 4 The founder of the Annalen der 
Psychologischen Forschungen , Dr. Xavier Wycherley.’ 
Permit me, Herr Doctor, to tell you how much I value 
the copies of your journal I have been able to obtain. 
Perhaps one day you will be so kind as to complete the 
gaps in my series ? ” 

Dr. Wycherley bowed and replied : 44 With pleasure. 
But you will have more to teach me than I you. I con- 
fess to coveting the knowledge of men and women that 
thirty years of diplomacy have given you.” 

The Chancellor continued blandly : 44 1 had hoped 
to give myself the pleasure of meeting you on your 
69 


THE MIND-READER 


arrival at Pfalzburg. But apparently our young 
friend von Lindenau made a stupid mistake in descend- 
ing at the station of Pfalzburg West. I was, of course, 
awaiting you at the terminus. You will excuse my 
apparent discourtesy, Herr Doctor? ” 

Dr. Wycherley bowed again. Inwardly he was re- 
flecting that the young lieutenant was hardly the man 
to make stupid mistakes. No doubt he had wanted the 
doctor to avoid seeing the Chancellor before he had 
seen the Crown Prince. 

Prince Karel brought the conversation sharply to 
the point at issue : “ Dr. Wycherley has meanwhile been 
enquiring into my case, and he agrees with the conclu- 
sion I had arrived at.” 

The King’s scalp twitched angrily. 

“ What’s that, what’s that?” he cried, and turned 
on Dr. Wycherley : “ Didn’t I tell you plainly that my 
son’s ideas were only morbid nonsense? Your business 
is to cure, isn’t it, isn’t it? ” 

“ Where cure is possible, your Majesty.” 

“ As it is here ! ” 

“ If sufficient time is allowed, there are good hopes 
of permanent cure. But marriage must be put aside 
for some years at least.” He spoke quietly but decis- 
ively. 

“ The marriage is arranged for Thursday. It 
must take place on Thursday ! To-morrow the Grand 
Duchess makes her State entry into the city, into the 
city ! ” 

The Chancellor interposed smoothly : “ The Herr 
Doctor’s examination of the Crown Prince has neces- 
70 


THE DECISION 


sarily been very brief. He will probably desire to look 
into matters in greater detail before giving his final 
decision. There are many important aspects that pos- 
sibly have not yet been brought to his notice.” 

But Dr. Wycherley ignored the golden bridge that 
was offered for his retreat. <fi Your Excellency,” he 
said, 66 will know that I am not the man to make hasty 
decisions. My professional advice has been asked, and 
it is this: that all thoughts of marriage be put aside 
for some years at least.” 

Prince Karel added : “ That is what my own con- 
science tells me also.” 

“ And what of your duty to your father? ” asked 
the King. His little, ferrety eyes shot murderous 
glances at the mental healer. “ Isn’t it your duty to- 
obey his wishes, to obey his wishes?” 

“ There are other duties too, father.” 

The Chancellor moved quickly to interpose between 
father and son. 

“ Permit me to explain, sir. I do not think that 
the Crown Prince thoroughly realises all the aspects of 
this matter. I have the very deepest sympathy with 
his scruples of conscience — they do honour to him. 
But I believe that they blind him to the very serious 
position in which his proposed action would place us. 
I have here a report from the Chief of Police.” He 
drew out a folded paper from his pocket, and tapped it 
significantly as he fixed Prince Karel with his eye. 
“ He tells me that the announcement of the alliance 
with the Grand Duchess has had a distinctly quieting 
effect upon the people, and that it has given the Royal 


THE MIND-READER 


Family more popularity — I speak plain words, because 
the situation demands plain words — more popularity 
than for many years past. The Socialist element has 
received a decided set-back. But were this marriage to 
be cancelled, it is my deep belief — based on a lifetime’s 
knowledge of the people of Varovia — that the political 
consequences would be disastrous . For my part I 
could only ask that my resignation of the Chancellorship 
be accepted and that I be permitted to retire and spend 
my old age in some quieter land.” 

“ You hear that, you hear that? ” added King Sig- 
mund to his son. 

“ The police department wants re-organising,” re- 
plied the Prince, his lips white and tense. 

“ So much for internal affairs,” pursued the Chan- 
cellor relentlessly. “ Now for the external aspect. 
The Weissenrode-Hohensteins are financially of small 
importance, but through their relationship to most of 
the Royal Families of Europe the alliance is vital to 
the political existence of Varovia as an independent 
kingdom. Is your Royal Highness prepared to see 
your father degraded to the standing of a mediatised 
prince? Look at those portraits on the walls sur- 
rounding you — Sigmund the Great, Rudolph, Sigmund 
II, victor at the bloody field of Szczapanacs — what 
would they think of their descendant who betrayed his 
dynasty ? ” 

Involuntarily Prince Karel looked up at the grave 
faces that all had their eyes — or so it seemed — turned 
upon him. “ But our relations with foreign Powers are 
now friendly? 99 he argued. 

72 


THE DECISION 


“ To outward appearance, yes. In reality — ” von 
Olmiitz paused significantly. 

With renewed vehemence he went on : “ So far we 
have looked at Varovia’s claims upon you — now let us 
look at the claims of the noble lady who has given you 
her heart. Are we to send the Grand Duchess back to 
her country jilted upon her wedding-day — disgraced in 
the eyes of all her people — a byword in Europe? 
What excuse have we to offer? That our Crown Prince 
has wearied of her ? That his affections have cooled ? ” 
“We could tell her the truth,” interrupted the 
Prince in a strained whisper. 

“And what to her people? Are we to tell them 
that our Crown Prince fancies he is no fit mate for any 
woman? Would they believe that? No, they would 
look on it as the merest excuse. They would believe 
that Varovia had deliberately insulted the Grand Duch- 
ess Irma. Here is the Grand Duchess — ” von Olmiitz 
took up a framed photograph from the King’s desk — 
“ are you prepared to send this noble lady back to her 
people insulted and disgraced? 

“ Come,” he took the Prince by the arm and hur- 
ried him to the balcony that overlooked the city of 
Pfalzburg. “ See there the arches and the decorations 
your people have erected to welcome your bride to- 
morrow! There is the railway-station at which she 
will arrive. There are the streets through which you 
will drive to the music of the acclamations of your 
people. There is the cathedral at which the Arch- 
bishop will place her hand in yours and give to you a 
blessing on the marriage from our Holy Father the 
73 


THE MIND-READER 


Pope. Out there ” — he flung his arm wide — “ out 
there in the far distance is the castle of Greiffenfels 
where even now they prepare for your wedding-night. 
There you will pass the honeyed days with the noble 
lady who loves you passionately and is to give you all 
that your heart desires. Is there no blood in your 
veins? Gott in Himmel! are you ice? 99 

The Crown Prince’s face was flushed ; his blood ran 
hot within him. Nervously he clasped and unclasped 
his hands as he stood on the balcony looking now upon 
the streets that were being decked for his marriage and 
now out to the distant horizon. 

The Chancellor played his last card. “ A special 
messenger from Weissenrode arrived with a postbag but 
half an hour ago. For you there is this letter ” — he 
drew it out from his pocket — “ the writing is familiar 
to us all. Open it and see what message your noble 
lady has for you ! 99 

The young Prince clutched at the letter and kissed 
it rapturously. The Chancellor came quickly inside 
the room and said to Dr. Wycherley : “ I believe I am 
correct in stating that the Royal Family of Varovia 
have no further need of your services. A pleasant 
Ijourney to you, Herr Doctor! ” 

Dr. Wycherley bowed in silence and withdrew. 

* * * * * * * 

The three days that followed that momentous in- 
terview were days packed with activity for the Crown 
Prince. There was the arrival of the Grand Duchess 
Irma at Pfalzburg, her State entry into the city, the 
74 


THE DECISION 


dinners and the receptions, the official visits and the 
official return visits. He had hardly time for thought 
until he retired to his bed at night, weary from the 
round of ceremonies and the multitude of pleasant noth- 
ings he had had to evolve for each of the important 
people who were presented to him. 

Without a pause the official ceremonies carried him 
along with them in a breathless rush to his marriage- 
day. The drive to the cathedral was through a lane of 
acclamations from his people — right and left he bowed 
to acknowledge them, bowing as the actor does to a 
hazy sea of faces on the other side of the glaring foot- 
lights. Individual faces were lost in the sea; when he 
raised his hand to his helmet and smiled up at the flut- 
tering handkerchiefs from balcony or roof, the action 
was quite mechanical. 

It was a huge dream panorama of shoutings and 
cheerings, of fluttering flags and blazing uniforms, un- 
til he found himself walking slowly up the aisle of the 
cathedral while the solemn organ rolled out its thunder- 
ous chords and sent them echoing around the fretted 
tracery of the great dome. For a moment he faltered; 
then he looked into the eyes of his bride and his heart 
leapt to the joy in hers. 

A splendid pair of lovers they made as they left 
the cathedral after the ceremony and drove back to the 
palace — the people of Pfalzburg were frantic in their 
acclamations. One of the very few in all that vast 
gathering who did not cheer the royal pair was Dr. 
Wycherley, viewing the procession from the balcony 
of his hotel. His heart was heavy within him at the 
75 


THE MIND-READER 


thought of the tragedy of the future — of the sacrifice 
which was being made so that the dynasty should con- 
tinue in its seat of power. 

Upon the woman would the weight of the tragedy 
fall — upon her and upon the children that might be 
hers. 

Late that evening the Crown Prince and Princess 
arrived at the castle of Greiffenfels in which their 
honeymoon was to be spent. The servants in the castle 
were few. They were to have all the privacy permis- 
sible to a royal pair. 

Prince Karel and his beautiful bride dined alone in 
the great dining-room which opens on to the terrace- 
walk around the battlements of Greiffenfels. They 
were sipping their coffee, and the attendants had dis- 
creetly withdrawn. 

44 Why are you looking so thoughtful and sad?” 
asked Irma when a long pause had ensued between 
them. 

44 1 didn’t mean to, Liebchen. My thoughts were 
wandering,” returned the Prince dreamily. 

44 Tell me what you were thinking of? ” 

44 1 was thinking of a solitary hut in the forest of — 
But what am I saying? That’s no matter to dwell 
upon.” He pulled himself together and gazed at his 
bride with love welling into his eyes. 44 To-night, this 
hour, is the happiest of my life. Is it your happiest 
hour, Liebchen ? ” 

Irma came to him and laid her face upon his shoul- 
der, looking up into his eyes. 44 Need I say, Karli?” 
76 


THE DECISION 


He kissed her passionately again and again, crush- 
ing her to his breast. 

“ Oh, you will kill me with your kisses ! ” she cried 
in mock fear, and then lovingly returned his kisses. 

44 Tell me once again, this is the happiest hour of 
your life? ” 

" You know it, my loved one ! ” 

44 If you had only this hour with me to look back 
upon, you would regret nothing? ” 

44 What do you mean by saying such a strange 
thing, Karli? 99 she replied, startled. 44 1 want you with 
me always.” 

44 But this hour would fill you with memories of 
joy? 99 he insisted gently. 

44 Yes— oh, yes ! ” 

He rose from his chair and took out a cigarette- 
case from his pocket. 44 1 would like to smoke a little 
on the terrace. Liebchen, you will excuse ? 99 

44 Let me come with you — the night is glorious, the 
stars are singing to us of joy and happiness.” 

44 No, dear, I want this moment alone. I want to 
persuade myself that all this joy of mine is real. Won’t 
you go to the piano and play for me that which I like 
so well, 4 Star of Eve ’? 99 

44 But it is sad ! 99 

44 4 The sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought,’ ” he quoted, with music in his voice. 44 Kiss 
me once again, my beloved, full upon the lips ! ” 

She came to him, and he crushed her again in his 
arms, raining kisses upon her. With reverence in his 
eyes he followed her as she moved to the room ad join- 
77 


THE MIND-READER 


ing to play for him the haunting melody from “ Tann- 
hauser.” 

Then the Crown Prince Karel, heir to the kingdom 
of Varovia, left the happiness that was his and walked 
with firm step and clear eye to the end of the battle- 
ments where the shadows are dark. 

There was a flower growing in a crevice down the 
wall, and he leant far over in order to pluck it. 

* * # * * * * 

All that evening of the wedding-day Dr. Wycherley 
had had a deep sense of tragedy crowding in upon 
him. To try to banish it from his mind he had made 
his way to one of the great popular cafes of Pfalzburg, 
where a tsigane orchestra flung out its gay melodies 
and the faces of the people radiated happiness. 

About eleven o’clock, when he was leaving the res- 
taurant to return to his hotel, there arose a sudden 
clamour in the streets that carried a very different note 
to the wild rejoicings of the populace. A crowd was 
gathering around one of the advertisement pillars on 
which the newspapers of Pfalzburg display their special 
news. Every moment its numbers were increasing. 
“ Read it out to us ! ” they cried. 

A man with a loud voice began to read it to the 
crowd, and fragments came to Dr. Wycherley’s ears: 
“ Terrible tragedy ! Death of the Crown Prince ! A 
terrible accident has occurred to our beloved Prince 
Karel on his wedding-night. . . . Apparently he was 
leaning over the battlements to pluck a flower growing 
in the wall, and overbalanced himself. . . . The flower 
78 


THE DECISION 


was still in his grasp. . . . Medical help was at once 
sent for. . . . The doctor was of opinion that death 
must have been practically instantaneous. ...” 

Dr. Wycherley raised his hat reverently. 

“ There died a prince,” he said. 


79 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 

M ONTE CARLO held a persistent fascination 
for Dr. Wycherley. Not as a field of fortune, 
since the doctor never staked money on the 
tables, but as a laboratory of human feelings, emotions 
and passions. There is no crowd so cosmopolitan as 
a Monte Carlo crowd in high season — none so expres- 
sive of the complexities of modern civilisation. To the 
doctor, with his peculiar outlook, they were gathered 
together from all the great cities of the world for the 
express purpose of providing him with material for 
study. Monte Carlo was for him an absorbing moral- 
ity play — gorgeously staged, produced with sensuous, 
cynical realism, played by an ever-shifting crowd of 
actors ranging from the greatest names of the world 
down to the most beast-like parasites of the underworld. 

A hothouse of civilisation, holding rare exotics of 
delicate beauty and fragrance side by side with brilliant 
poison-flowers. 

It was on one of the doctor’s visits to Monte Carlo 
that he became involved in the case of the Countess 
Varoczy and the French Government. If one adjective 
had to be chosen to describe the Countess, it would be 
unquestionably the word “ daring.” Daring in dress, 
80 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


in jewels, in play, in mode of life. The scandals 
around her name were notorious in half-a-dozen capi- 
tals of Europe. She flouted public opinion — took keen 
delight in flouting it. It made women hate her and 
men flock around her. 

That evening when Dr. Wycherley was watching 
her, the Countess was plunging wildly at the tables. 
Further, quite a small crowd in the Salon Prive were 
watching her and her play, and that is unusual at 
Monte Carlo. For in the gaming-rooms a beautiful 
woman commands as little attention as a beautiful wom- 
an at a race-meeting while the horses are racing. In 
the Salles des Jeux the horses are always racing. 
Money reigns. Interest is focussed on money — my 
money primarily, yours secondarily. Men and women 
become mentally classified as somebodies — those who 
play ; or nobodies — those who watch. As systematists 
or non-systematists ; as cautious or audacious ; as lucky 
or unlucky; as good losers or bad. 

It was therefore very definite tribute to the per- 
sonality, beauty and audacity of the Countess Varoczy 
that herself and her play were being keenly observed 
and commented on in the hushed whispers that respect 
the solemnity of the temple of Mammon. She was ap- 
parently flinging money away in limit plunges on single 
numbers in the midst of her series bets. And yet she 
was winning — heavily, magnificently. The devil’s luck 
was with her. But whether she won or lost on a coup 
there was no loss of her control and poise. She was 
magnificently cool. By her side was young De Car- 
teret, lieutenant on the flagship cruiser La Patrie , help- 
81 


THE MIND-READER 


ing her in the collection and changing of her money. 
Underneath his well-bred restraint one could read a dis- 
tinct pride in his favoured position. 

In the background of that cosmopolitan crowd Dr. 
Wycherley was looking on at the scene with the quiet, 
intent gaze of the student. He might have been watch- 
ing the outcome of some laboratory experiment. 

There was a touch on his arm, and he turned to 
find beside him the French Minister for Foreign Af- 
fairs, M. Moreze. An elderly man with a white mous- 
tache and tufted imperial ; well set-up in spite of years, 
with sure power in his face. That he had kept his post 
through five successive ministries was proof of his 
worth. 

44 My dear Doctor, I did not know you were a stu- 
dent of roulette,” he said in French as he shook hands 
cordially. 

44 Roulette has no interest for me,” returned Dr. 
Wycherley smilingly. 44 1 have not staked even a five- 
franc piece for twenty years. It is men and women 
that interest me, and I am never tired of watching them. 
There is always something fresh to discover. Monte 
Carlo is one of my laboratories.” 

44 How cold-blooded!” 

44 All keen professional men and women are inevit- 
ably cold-blooded in the exercise of their life-study. 
To the surgeon, you, my dear Moreze, are possibly an 
interesting specimen of an enlarged supra-renal. To 
the diplomatist, a model in the art of saying nothing 
with the most perfect air of bestowing a deep confidence. 
To the journalist, a column or so of excellent copy. 

82 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


To women, an interesting problem of voluntary celi- 
bacy.” 

“ And to yourself? ” 

44 I am asking myself what brings you to Monte 
Carlo. For your interest in gambling is almost as 
slight as mine.” 

The Minister leaned forward confidentially. 44 You 
read wonderfully well. I have escaped from Paris for 
a brief holiday. A few days at my villa at Beaulieu, 
and then back to work. Ah, work — if only one could 
cut oneself free ! ” 

Dr. Wycherley smiled. 44 That confirms a pre- 
vious remark of mine.” 

44 Which one? ” 

44 Your peculiar interest to the diplomatist.” 

The Minister lowered his eyes, and Dr. Wycherley, 
in understanding of his meaning, did not take the mat- 
ter further. 

M. Moreze started another topic. 44 The Countess,” 
with a glance in her direction, 44 does she interest you as 
a laboratory specimen ? ” 

44 1 am not sure. So far as I have observed her, 
she falls into type, and the typical is to me uninter- 
esting.” 

44 The immemorial type? ” 

44 Yes, this kind of woman is of all ages. Egypt, 
Home, Venice, Spain, Russia — there has always been 
a Countess Varoczy. The epitome of sex. She reeks 
of sex.” 

44 Ah, sex ! If only the world were sexless ...” 

The doctor completed the sentence for him. 

83 


THE MIND-READER 


“ . . . how much easier would be the work of a Minister 
for Foreign Affairs ! ” 

“ You find her 4 true to type ’ — to borrow an ex- 
pression from the language of the Mendelian? 99 

44 So far. One can almost tell just what she will 
do or say under any given set of circumstances. The 
same daring unconventionality on the surface, the same 
flouting of decent opinion, and yet the same underlying 
conventionality of thought beneath. Their supersti- 
tions, for instance. Would you ever see a Countess 
Yaroczy plunge on the number 13, however sure she 
might be that it would turn up ? ” 

There was a sudden stir around the table of the 
Varoczy, a sudden whispered buzz of comment. Both 
the Minister and the doctor turned to look. The 
Countess, disdaining all other of the thirty-seven num- 
bers, had just placed a small pile of gold, four louis on 
top of a five-louis piece — the limit stake — on the square 
of the number 13 on the green cloth. 

The roulette ball had been flicked from the hand of 
the croupier and was running swdftly around the wall 
of the roulette board like a finger-click around the whis- 
pering gallery of St. Paul’s. It began to slow* in its 
course. 

“ Rien-n'va-plus” remarked the croupier in one 
quick word. 

The roulette ball hit against a little metal deflector, 
rebounded sharply, and tumbled into one of the thirty- 
seven compartments. Without a spoken word the crou- 
pier touched with his rake the number 13 on the green 
cloth, and began rapidly to pull in the stakes that had 
84 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


lost. The second croupier touched the Countess’s pile 
with his rake to indicate that he was now paying out 
on it, and then pushed to her notes and gold to the 
value of thirty-five times her bet. She had won on 
number 13 — and with a limit stake! All eyes were on 
her, envying, admiring. Young De Carteret glanced 
around with pride. Even the blase croupiers looked 
appreciation of her audacity, and it is rare indeed that 
they are stirred out of their monotonous boredom. 

But there was not the slightest trace of exultation 
with the Countess — still that same slightly insolent in- 
souciance which goaded men to admiration. 

The Minister turned to Dr. Wycherley with a gleam 
of banter in his voice. 46 Do you still class her in 
type ? ” 

The doctor’s reply held a seriousness strange in 
comparison to the triviality of the point : 44 That is the 
most startling happening I have seen at the tables this 
evening. There is always something new to learn in 
men and women. Yes, it is to me peculiarly interest- 
ing.” 

They watched her in silence for some time, still at 
her audacious plunging. Then M. Moreze remarked in 
a casual tone of voice: 44 You are now interested in the 
Countess ? Good ! . . . By the way, the rooms are get- 
ting uncomfortably hot, don’t you think? Suppose we 
stroll out on the terrace. You smoke? ” 

44 Occasionally.” 

44 It is relieving to me to hear you have some vice. 
Shall we stroll out? ” 

The doctor looked keenly at the Minister for For- 
85 


THE MIND-READER 


eign Affairs. “ It would be a great pleasure ... to 
do you any service.” 

It was very quiet out on the terraces — few people 
could spare time from the gaming-tables to bathe in 
that wonderful scene. Tall palms, grave in their immo- 
bility like Eastern sentinels. . . . The milk-white ter- 
races chalked against the night, velvety-black, and the 
motionless sea, velvety-black. . . . The tiny port of 
Monaco below them splashed with the reflection of the 
lights from the cliff-town. . . . The solitary red light 
that marks the harbour-mouth. ... A yacht at an- 
chor with lighted saloon throwing a golden comb of 
light into the black water. . . . Faint perfumes of ex- 
otic flowers floating lazily across the still air. . . . 
From a distant cafe the soft, caressing melody of a 
Viennese waltz touched by maestro artists. . . . Behind 
them, the milk-white Casino outlined with golden lights. 

. . . And behind again, the steep, scarped ramparts of 
mountain that take the Principality under their pro- 
tection and hold it nestling in their arms against the 
winds and snows of the North. A picture of fairyland 
— a wonder of the world. 

The Minister had thrown aside his air of casual, 
dilettante idling. He was now talking very slowly and 
seriously: “ . . .You can indeed do me a service — a 
great service. And, much more, a service to France 
and to the Entente which binds your country and mine 
together. The matter is delicate in the extreme.” He 
paused. 

“ You have my entire discretion.” 

“ That goes without saying, my dear Doctor.” 

86 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


Again he paused in deliberation, and then plunged sud- 
denly into the heart of his subject: “France is being 
betrayed. For some time past we have been preparing 
a secret re-organisation of the Navy in preparation for 
certain eventualities which I need not detail. Our 
plans must of course be known to the world later on, 
but at the moment it is vital that they should be kept 
secret. Yet we have information that they are being 
sold to a foreign power. And we want to know by 
whom, to whom, and how. We must know.” 

Dr. Wycherley drew back a little. “ Before you 
proceed further, my dear Moreze, how is such a matter 
in my province? I am not a detective, but a psycholo- 
gist.” 

“ That is the very reason why I come to you. The 
detective work is done, and in any case I should not 
dream of asking a distinguished scientist to undertake 
work of that kind. We know this : that the information 
is being sold from Toulon, by someone in the personnel 
of the Navy. That has been deduced by a process of 
elimination. We suspect this: that it is being sold to 
the Countess Varoczy. We are entirely ignorant of 
this : how she communicates it to the foreign power in 
question.” 

Dr. Wycherley was rolling a second cigarette for 
himself, left-handedly and with wonderful deftness, for 
he never even glanced at the operation of his hands. 
He had trained himself to an unusual independent exec- 
utive power of the rarely-used half of the cerebral hemi- 
sphere. He replied : 


87 


THE MIND-READER 


“ But there are dozens of possible ways — code let- 
ters, telegrams, messengers.” 

“ The Monaco police have worked in conjunction 
with ours. They have not been hampered by scruples. 
They have opened her letters, altered the wording of 
her telegrams, spied on almost her every movement, 
bribed her chauffeur, even burgled her villa in the olive- 
groves above the town.” He pointed to the lights dot- 
ting the dark mountainside. 

“ Wireless telegraphy ? ” 

“ She has no apparatus. In any case our own in- 
stallations have been ordered to watch for and pick 
up any messages.” 

“ By water? ” 

“ We have a spy on her yacht.” 

“ By private interviews? ” 

The Minister drew out a paper from an inner pocket 
and unfolded it. “ Here is a list of the people who 
have visited her during the last three weeks. There 
may be amongst them one who gives ...” There was 
a note of steel in his voice. “ . . . but so far as our 
suspicions go, not one who takes." 

He handed the list to Dr. Wycherley, who ran his 
eye over it non-committally. The Minister continued: 
“ You will see there, repeated frequently, the names of 
De Carteret, lieutenant ; Ealempin, captain of marines ; 
Goncourt, also captain of marines ; even Rocanier, rear- 
admiral commanding the cruiser squadron. In Eng- 
land, my dear Doctor, your people would doubtless hold 
up their hands in horror at the idea of their naval 
officers buzzing around a very notorious and very fas- 
88 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


cinating lady, but that is a matter in which we are hap- 
pily more tolerant. The moral aspect does not concern 
us. You will find also the names of many people well- 
known in what you would call our 4 smart set.’ . . . 
But the list does not help us until we know this for 
certain : does the Countess receive the information, and 
if so, how does she pass it on? Possibly, I am almost 
inclined to doubt if she is the intermediary, and so, I 
have come to Monte Carlo to observe her for myself. 
Our police suspicions may be entirely wrong; if so, we 
are wasting time and effort which is vital for the wel- 
fare of France. . . . Now, my dear Doctor, for the 
sake of my country and the sake of the Entente, will 
you give me your help ? 55 

44 How — in what way? 55 

44 You are a psychologist — a mind-reader. I know 
of your wonderful gift. ...” 

Dr. Wycherley interrupted him with a gesture. 
44 Do not exaggerate my powers. I am no worker of 
miracles. The psychic sense is with me only developed 
to a limited degree. As a Welsh lad, a patient of mine 
who also possessed the gift, once said: 4 The minds of 
men to-day are like clouded glass . 5 That expresses it 
exactly. Sometimes a mind lights up with ardent 
thought, and one can then read clearly the shadows on 
the glass ; sometimes one can only deduce from a vague 
shifting blur. There you have the reason why I am still 
studying the ways in which men’s minds work — so that 
the vague blurs may tell me so much of a man’s inner life 
as a few lines and bands in a spectrum will tell an 
astronomer of the life of a distant star. My psychic 
89 


THE MIND-READER 


gift, to accept the analogy, is a very rough and im- 
perfect human spectroscope, and I am still at work 
on the meanings of the lines and bands.” 

“ Perhaps in this case . . . ? ” 

“ It is just possible. I cannot guarantee success, 
but I will make the attempt.” 

“ A thousand thanks, my dear Doctor ! ” 

The doctor took out his smoking materials and pro- 
ceeded to roll himself a third cigarette. But this time 
he placed two cigarette papers end to end, so that the 
resulting product was nearly double the ordinary 
length. Then he lighted it and held it at arm’s length, 
about knee-high, and proceeded to fix his gaze on it. 

M. Moreze had been watching this strange proceed- 
ing with a very lively interest. “ May I ask what you 
are about to do ? ” 

“ I am going to hypnotise myself. . . . The point 
is here : for some considerable time this evening I have 
been observing the Countess. That was fortunate for 
the purpose of this experiment, because I was then en- 
tirely neutral and unbiassed. If I went to observe her 
again, I should inevitably be biassed by what you have 
told me. . . .You know, of course, that what one con- 
sciously observes is perhaps only a twentieth part of 
what one sees and hears subconsciously. I am now go- 
ing to try to recover the other nineteen-twentieths of 
my sensory impressions.” 

“ Am I to wake you later on? ” 

“ No, when the cigarette burns down to my fingers 
it will wake me automatically.” 

He fixed his gaze intently on the glowing end of 

90 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


the cigarette, and presently his eyes closed in a light 
hypnoidal sleep. 

******* 

The ash dropped off at intervals as the fire burnt 
slowly through the tobacco, and when at length the 
cigarette was down to a stump the heat burnt the doc- 
tor’s fingers and he awoke with a start. 

“ What results ? ” asked the Minister. 

The doctor did not reply for nearly a quarter of an 
hour. He was obviously concentrating intently on what 
had passed through his mind during sleep. At length 
he answered: “I see possibilities. Let us go* back to 
the tables. By the way, who was that young fellow by 
her side? ” 

“ De Carteret, lieutenant on La Patrie. The 
cruiser squadron is now lying at Villefranche, within 
half-an-hour by train from here. De Carteret is from 
Normandy, and I will tell you frankly that I do not 
trust him far. We Frenchmen have an expression, ‘ fin 
normand 9 99 

“ Rear-Admiral Rocanier I have seen in the Casino. 
He is an oldish man, rather bent and worn, with a 
scraggy grey beard, is it not so? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ Falempin and Goncourt? ” 

“ Just now I believe they are at Toulon. I could 
have you meet them if you wished.” 

“ Good ! Now to the tables.” 

When they entered the Salon Prive they found 
that the crowd had melted away from around the table 
91 


THE MIND-READER 


of the Countess. She was now playing rather soberly, 
staking on black and red and on four or six or eight 
numbers at a time — carre and transversale play. 

They watched her in silence from a distance, and 
then Dr. Wycherley remarked suddenly : “ I think I 
should like to try my luck at the tables.” 

The Minister looked at him in unconcealed surprise. 
“ But I understood you made it a rule not to gamble? ” 

“ I never make rigid rules for myself — life is too 
complex. Come and help me to collect my winnings, 
or finance me if I lose too much. I have an idea that 
my lucky numbers will turn up.” 

“ Your lucky numbers ! ” 

“ Yes, 13 is one of them. I think I shall stake on 
13.” 

There was a vacant seat at the Countess’s table, and 
Dr. Wycherley took possession of it. As he had indi- 
cated, he laid his first stake, a five-franc piece, on the 
number 13 en plein. 

By an extraordinary coincidence it won at the first 
attempt. 

“ Beginner’s luck ! ” commented the Minister, stand- 
ing at Dr. Wycherley’s side. Young De Carteret, look- 
ing up, recognised and bowed to him with empresse- 
ment. He gave a curious glance, too, at the doctor, a 
strange figure for a gambler with his silvery hair and 
the fine face of a man who had given his life to science 
and humanity. The Countess Yaroczy, who had lost 
on the coup , also looked at him with curiosity as the 
croupier counted out thirty-five times his stake in gold 
92 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


and silver and passed it over to him. But the doctor 
asked for all in silver — five-franc pieces. 

Then, very deliberately, he laid a silver piece on 
23, on 4, on 8, and two pieces on 19. 

The roulette ball tumbled into compartment 11, 
and his stakes were swept away. 

For the next coup he selected 0 for a five-franc 
piece, 11 for two five-franc pieces, and again 4 and 19. 

“ You think 11 will come up twice running? ” whis- 
pered the Minister. “ It seems improbable.” 

“ I have a strong feeling it will come up again,” 
answered Dr. Wycherley, and, strangely enough, he 
proved to be right. 

“ What extraordinary luck ! You almost tempt me 
to follow your lead ! ” 

“ Now to concentrate on the lucky numbers.” 

“ Which are they ? ” 

“ 13, 23 and 0, 23 being the day of the month.” 

For a dozen coups or more he kept staking on 
those three numbers, together with sundry bets on black 
and red and on transfer sales. His curious deliberate- 
ness, coupled with his personality of the scientist, made 
the onlookers think that he was perhaps a mathemati- 
cian with a new and infallible system, and some of them, 
including the Countess, began to follow his lead. 

But capricious Fortune seemed to have tired of her 
protege, and after various ups and doAvns of luck he 
finally found himself with but a single five-franc piece 
remaining out of all his winnings. 

“ I think I shall stop now,” he remarked. 

93 


THE MIND-READER 


“ You ought to have stopped after your second 
win en plein,” answered M. Moreze as they made their 
way out. “ Such luck was far too good to continue.” 

“ I am quite satisfied. I have had my little gamble 
without expense. Now I am beginning to think that 
roulette is a much more interesting game than I had 
imagined.” 

“You have tasted blood!” laughed the Minister. 
Then he added very seriously, when they were out of 
earshot of the loungers in the Casino atrium : “ What 
deductions have you made? ” 

“ I would prefer not to speak until I am sure. 
Please do me this favour: invite the Countess to dine 
with you to-morrow evening at your villa, and myself 
also.” 

“ My dear Doctor ! Invite a lady I have never met 
to dine with me, a bachelor and a Minister, at my villa ! ” 

Dr. Wycherley smiled. “ With your diplomatic 
gifts, you will be able to find an excuse for the invita- 
tion that will make it appear the most natural thing in 
the world.” 

“ You set me a problem indeed ! ” 

“ And so I enlist your professional interest. Come, 
you are not to be beaten by a problem in diplomacy ! ” 

The Minister stopped in thought. “ I will go back 
and get an introduction through De Carteret, if you 
will excuse me.” 

“ Certainly. And please extend a pressing invita- 
tion also to De Carteret, Rocanier, Ealempin and Gon- 
court. This is vital.” 


94 


THE COUNTESS PLUNGES 


44 Your methods are beyond me, but I will do as you 
say.” 

44 My methods are open for all the world to read,” 
answered the doctor with his gentle cynicism. 44 That 
is why they are so obscure.” 


95 


CHAPTER IX 


THE NUMBER 13 

D R. WYCHERLEY arrived early at tile Villa 
Felicite at Beaulieu. 

The Minister met him with an open tele- 
gram in his hand. 44 The Countess accepted my invita- 
tion last night,” he said, 44 but just an hour ago I re- 
ceived this wire to say that she is suddenly indisposed 
and begs to be excused.” 

44 Capital ! ” answered Dr. Wycherley. 

44 1 don’t follow you ! ” 

44 Beaulieu is well beyond the frontier of the Princi- 
pality of Monaco, you will note.” 

M. Moreze looked at him searchingly, perplexity in 
his eyes. 44 Have you seen her or met her since last 
night, or written to her? ” 

44 No, to all those questions. I had an entirely dif- 
ferent piece of work on hand — a Monaco doctor I 
know called me in to help him with a case of his, a 
Monegasque tradesman with a most extraordinary hal- 
lucination of touch. An extremely interesting case. 
The real cause of the trouble was far removed from the 
sensory hallucination. We employed the technique of 
psycho-analysis, and . . . but this would scarcely in- 
terest you.” 


96 


THE NUMBER 13 


The Minister regarded the doctor somewhat coldly. 
“ Where the safety of France is concerned ...” he 
began. 

“ Please do not imagine I am neglecting the work 
I had promised to help you with. I had set matters in 
train, and there was nothing further for me to do un- 
til this morning. I hope all four of the naval men 
will be here to-night.” 

“ All four have accepted. I made the invitation 
seem as if it had an importance beyond mere socia- 
bility.” 

“ Capital ! Now, my dear Moreze, if you will al- 
low me, I will go round your garden. Trees are one 
of my hobbies, and I think I see some fine specimens. 
What is that strange dwarf tree over there — the leaves 
are just peeping over the camellia bushes? The scent 
from it is to me peculiarly attractive.” 

“ It is from Indo-China. I shall have to ask my 
gardener to tell you the name of it.” 

“ By the way, have you an atlas in your smoking- 
lounge? ” 

“ In my study I have one.” 

“ Please do me the favour of having it moved to 
the smoking-lounge. And, for another point, after I 
have brought the conversation round to the atlas and 
have threshed out my point in connection with it, will 
you be good enough to refer to my gift of mind-reading? 
In the ordinary way I greatly dislike having this exag- 
gerated, but for to-night there are special reasons. And 
as you know, I do not allow myself to be tied by rigid 
rules.” 


97 


THE MIND-READER 


“ You certainly had beginner’s luck at the tables ! ” 
answered the Minister, taking the allusion. “ But you 
ought to have stopped at your second win en plein. 
Ah, if we only knew the moment when to stop ! ” 

Dr. Wycherley turned away to examine the dwarf 
tree with the strange new scent. 

Goncourt and Falempin arrived together, having 
come by the same train. During dinner the doctor 
carefully observed them as well as the other two, Ro- 
canier and De Carteret, making his quiet deductions 
and conclusions. 

Captain Falempin was a man who spoke little and 
drank little — an elderly young man who had mastered 
the art of taking more than he gave. Goncourt, on 
the other hand, was somewhat flamboyant and Southern 
in his exuberance, and as the wine passed round he 
opened his mind freely on any subject that cropped up. 

Not until they were all settled in the smoking- 
lounge over cigars and liqueurs did Dr. Wycherley be- 
gin to take command of the conversation, and then it 
was by a most unexpected turn. He was standing in 
the open doorway, profile to the rest, a clean-cut sil- 
houette against the lighted veranda. He said very 
deliberately : 

“ You Frenchmen are the most inhumane of the 
civilised nations.” 

There was an instant chorus of surprise, of dissent, 
of challenge. 

44 To prove my point, I need only refer to your 
penal system. You have abolished the guillotine, and 
what have you substituted? Penal servitude in the 
98 


THE NUMBER 13 


most deadly climates in the world, under conditions of 
living that are practically inhuman tortures.” 

46 But they have their chance 1 ” protested Gon- 
court. 44 In about fifteen years they are released, if 
their conduct has been good.” 

44 Do any of you know that the death-rate in Guiana 
amongst the hard labour prisoners is over 10 per cent 
per annum? ” pursued the doctor remorselessly. He 
picked up an atlas and rapidly turned over the leaves 
until he had come to a map of the Carribean Sea, which 
he laid open on a table before them. 

44 Here is your French Guiana — one of the most 
pestilential swamps in the world. Mosquitoes by the 
myriad ; manioc ants avid for human flesh ; the chiques 
that burrow under the skin and cause tortures of itch- 
ing ; a score of other insect plagues ; and then malaria, 
dysentery, and yellow fever. Fifteen years ! Why, 
less than ten years is a man’s life in penal servitude in 
Guiana. Ten years of daily, hourly torture ! ” 

His voice had risen in hot indignation. 44 And 
then, worse, your Devil’s Isle for a traitor — imprison- 
ment for the term of his natural life. Not even the 
poor ghost of illusory hope that some day release might 
come! Dreyfus once talked to me of his five years 
on the Devil’s Isle — it made me shudder as no hospital 
or prison sight has ever done. It was an absolute mir- 
acle of will-power that he managed to keep his reason.” 

44 There is no one there now,” put in Falempin. 
(This was some years before Ulmo was sent to life im- 
prisonment on the Isle for selling State secrets.) 

44 No . . . but it is waiting. And if it were in my 

99 


THE MIND-READER 


power to hand the vilest wretch in the world over to 
the mercies of your French law, I doubt if I could bring 
myself to do so ! ” 

There was silence in the room. The Minister struck 
a match to light a fresh cigar, and the splutter of it 
cut fiercely into the silence. 

Then Dr. Wycherley closed the atlas and returned 
to his place by the doorway, profile in silhouette — the 
splendid profile of a man who had given his life to 
science and humanity. 

M. Moreze turned the subject abruptly. 44 I won- 
der if you know of the doctor’s extraordinary power 
of mind-reading,” he said. 44 He dislikes to mention it 
himself, but I have seen him do marvellous things in 
that direction.” 

44 Do you mean under hypnotism ? ” asked the Ad- 
miral. 46 That is believable.” 

44 No, just in ordinary life. While we have been 
sitting here, who knows but what he may have been read- 
ing all our inmost thoughts ? ” 

44 1 confess myself a sceptic. One cannot believe 
that kind of thing without first-hand evidence.” 

44 Doctor, will you give us a demonstration ? ” pur- 
sued the Minister. 44 And who will volunteer for the 
experiment P ” 

44 Thanks ! ” answered Goncourt with emphatic 
meaning. 44 Drag out our little love affairs into the 
indecent light of day — thanks ! ” There was a general 
laugh at this, and the tension was broken. 

From the doorway Dr. Wycherley said dreamily: 

100 


THE NUMBER 13 


“ As a scientist I read the thoughts of others, and 
as a humanitarian I keep my knowledge to myself.” 

Later in the evening, as the party broke up, Rear- 
Admiral Rocanier offered Dr. Wycherley a lift in his 
motor-car back to Monte Carlo. 

“ Many thanks,” answered the doctor. And pres- 
ently: “ Shall we take the upper Comiche? There is a 
glorious view from the hills on such a night as this.” 
And presently again : “ I should like to take a rough 
sketch of this view. Shall we stop for a few moments ? ” 

The Admiral’s hand trembled as he grasped his 
cane, and he drew his cloak around him as though the 
warm night-air were chilly. 

“ You are cold,” said Dr. Wycherley after a little 
while. “ As a doctor I suggest to you a short, brisk 
walk. If the car were sent on, we might rejoin it.” 

And then, walking side by side in the black, velvety 
night, the mental healer waited patiently for the mo- 
ment when the Admiral should confess to him. 

Three days later M. Moreze asked Dr. Wycherley 
with veiled impatience whether he had not anything to 
report, for in the meanwhile the doctor had given no 
word of his deductions or suspicions. 

“ It is all settled,” answered the doctor, very sim- 

p!y- 

" All settled ! ” 

“ Yes. Acting in your name, I have ventured to 
allow the Countess Yaroczy twenty-four hours in which 
to leave the Principality of Monaco and get over the 
Italian frontier.” 


101 


THE MIND-READER 


“ And she has taken your orders ? ” asked the Min- 
ister in blank surprise. 

“ Otherwise it would have been very uncomfortable 
for her. Monaco has only an area of a few square 
miles, and any short motor-ride would have taken her 
into French territory, where she might have been liable 
to arrest. She was wise to take my warning.” 

“ But, but — the man? Who is the man ? ” 

“ I have no intention of revealing his name. Be- 
lieve me, my dear Moreze, when I say that France has 
nothing to fear from him. To that I pledge my word.” 

“ Keep a traitor in our Navy? Unthinkable! ” 

“ I have never said that he was of the personnel of 
your Navy. The list you gave me included a wide 
range of names.” 

“ But I insist on knowing ! ” 

“ So that you may have him sent to the Devil’s Isle? 
No — not through my agency. It is precisely at this 
point that my professional cold-bloodedness ends and 
your professional cold-bloodedness begins. You set 
me a problem in practical psychology which interested 
me greatly, and I have been fortunate enough to solve 
it. If I have done any service to France, the knowledge 
of having done so is sufficient reward for me.” 

“ But your methods of solving it? ” 

“ To tell you that now would be to incriminate the 
man ... or woman. Some day, perhaps, when the 
matter is dead and forgotten — if you are then still in- 
terested. I admit that then you would be fully entitled 
to know.” 

# * * * * * * 

102 


THE NUMBER 13 


The occasion came sooner than the doctor had fore- 
seen. Rear-Admiral Rocanier had gone to his death 
like a brave man during the wreck of La Patrie on the 
cliffs of Majorca, in that memorable gale of November 
19th, eight months later. Under seal of confidence, 
that his memory might not be blackened to his descend- 
ants, Dr. Wycherley revealed the full story to the Min- 
ister for Foreign Affairs. 

“ He was infatuated with the Countess with the 
blind infatuation of an old man. In a young man duty 
and ambition may together turn the scale against the 
madness of desire, but in an old man who has reached 
to his highest post and has no spur of ambition, duty 
is a poor counterweight. Naturally, with a woman 
such as the Countess Varoczy, there was a heavy price 
to pay, and his madness of desire drove him to pay it. 
He gave me his word, after that evening at your villa, 
that he would break with his passion and give ample 
recompense to his country, and I knew that he was 
speaking from his heart.” 

“But how did you discover all this?” 

“ Through the number 13.” 

“ Please explain.” 

“ You remember that on the terrace at Monte Carlo 
I hypnotised myself in order to recover my full im- 
pressions of the Countess. The dominant impression 
that kept forcing itself upon me was the psychological 
strangeness of her plunge to the limit on the number 13. 
In my sleep I went through every play that I had seen 
her make that evening, coup after coup , and never once 
103 


THE MIND-READER 


before or again had I seen her stake en plein on num- 
ber 13. 

“ There must have been some strong reason for that 
unnatural bet, and I set myself to analyse all possible 
motives, eliminating them one after another in method- 
ical, scientific fashion. And then suddenly I came to 
the obvious truth.” 

“ That ...” 

“ That roulette might be a much more interesting 
game than I had imagined. That it presents the most 
perfect opportunity for the exchange of cipher mes- 
sages that one could possibly wish for. Consider. On 
the green cloth are marked thirty-seven numbers, from 
0 to 36 inclusive. That gives you in code your twenty- 
six letters of the alphabet, your ten numerals, and one 
number in excess. The number to be eliminated from 
the code would evidently be the unlucky number 13, and 
if it were used it must have some very special signifi- 
cance. Now M happens to be the thirteenth letter of 
the alphabet, and M is the initial letter of your own 
name. ...” 

“ You mean that she was staking out a code mes- 
sage about myself when she plunged to the limit on 
13 ! ” interrupted M. Moreze, startled out of himself. 

“ Precisely. I called back from the storehouse of 
my memories the other numbers on which she staked en 
plein while we were watching her together, and they 
pieced together into a flippantly contemptuous message 
in regard to yourself.” 

“ The devil! What was the message?” 

“ We need not enter into that. But you can imag- 
104 


THE NUMBER 13 


ine her malicious pleasure in piecing out the message 
under your very nose. Under the full glare of the 
lamplight, with a crowd of people watching her every 
movement, with you yourself keenly studying her ! ” 
The Minister’s mouth tightened with suppressed 
anger. Few men can rise superior to ridicule — espe- 
cially the ridicule of a woman. He remarked abruptly : 
“ It was a dangerous game to play ! ” 

“ I do not agree, my dear Moreze. While your 
detectives and spies were opening her letters, altering 
her telegrams, eavesdropping on her private conversa- 
tions, and even burgling her private bureau, she was in 
the habit of calmly passing on her information under 
the full glare of the lamplight, openly for anyone to 
read. It is the most conventional, the most undanger- 
ous form of audacity.” 

“ To whom did she pass it on? ” 

“ Who can say ? In that cosmopolitan crowd 
around the tables it might have been any man or wom- 
an. I deduced at once that the code would have to be 
a very simple one, easily carried in mind, because the 
accomplice could not dare to take written notes of a 
cipher message with a dozen people looking over his 
shoulder. Its simplicity would not endanger its secur- 
ity, for who would guess in the first place that her wild 
gambling was merely the tapping out of a code mes- 
sage? The alphabet ran from 0 to 26 — excluding 13, 
your special number — and 27 to 36 stood for the ten 
numerals. Any by-play on carves , tr answers ales, col- 
onnes or chances simples would be ignored in reading 
the messages. 


105 


THE MIND-READER 


44 So I returned with you to the tables to play back 
her code on her. I started, you may remember, with 
a stake on the number 13, which by pure chance hap- 
pened to win ; I continued, when I saw that I had her 
attention, with 23, 4, 8 and double 19; I followed it 
with 0, double 11, 4 and 19. That formed the message 
4 M. weiss alles,’ 4 Moreze knows all.’ 

44 Now came the crucial moment: how would she 
take it? Without a word spoken, without a gesture 
exchanged, there took place a very pretty bout of 
thought-fencing. While her face remained a cold 
mask, her mind was buzzing with perplexity. In my 
mental spectroscope I saw, so to speak, the lines and 
bands that I have long since learnt to correlate with 
perplexity. Her thoughts probably ran in some such 
fashion as this: Who is that strange old man playing 
my code? Is he friend or enemy? Is it a bluff or a 
warning? He seems to be very friendly with Moreze. 
Or is his staking a matter of pure chance? 

44 She gave no answer, so I began to hammer home 
my message, 13, 23, 0 — M, w, a . . . 13, 23, 0 — M, 
w, a . . .13, 23, 0 — M, w, a . . . until I had it driven 
in right on the nerve. Still she was suspicious, and 
when her answer was at length wrung out of her it was 
non-committal — merely a repetition on her part of my 
M, w, a. But that was sufficient for my purpose, and 
I then had you invite her to dinner at your villa. That 
move must again have caused her acute perplexity.” 

44 For a moment she hesitated perceptibly, but she 
recovered almost at once and accepted rather gushing- 
ly,” answered the Minister. 

106 


THE NUMBER 13 


44 With a woman of that kind, her first thoughts 
would naturally be for her own safety. She suspected 
a trap. So she accepted, and then found a convenient 
indisposition the next day. That placed the matter 
beyond a doubt. . . . The rest was simple. Probably 
she had the decency to pass on a warning to the Ad- 
miral, and that, coupled with our conversation in your 
smoking-lounge, drove him inevitably to confession.” 

The Minister thought in silence for a few moments. 
Then he said : 44 1 am glad, now, that you would not 
give up his name. As you said, a keen professional 
man is always cold-blooded in the exercise of his life- 
work. I did not appreciate your point of view at the 
time, but I do now. . . . By the way, your service to 
France has not yet been suitably rewarded. What 
honour can I bestow on you? I know that money is 
out of the question with you, but possibly there is some 
decoration? ” 

Dr. Wycherley smiled cordially. 44 Many thanks, 
my dear Moreze, but I am going to ask for something 
much more valuable to me.” 

44 Anything whatever in my power to give. 
Gladly!” 

44 That rare tree of yours from Indo-China. I have 
been coveting it shamelessly. If you could have it 
transplanted to my garden on Isola Salvatore . . . ? ” 


CHAPTER X 


“ THEY SAY SHE IS BEWITCHED 

S HE was climbing painfully on her knees the long 
flight of stone steps that leads from the Grotto 
of the Vision of Bernadette up to the great double 
Basilique of Lourdes. With her, helping and encour- 
aging, was her parish priest, Pere Bonivet. 

u Courage, my child, and faith ! ” he was whisper- 
ing. “ Have faith, and all will be well. Only faith 
in Our Lady can cure you.” 

Out of the crowd of the sick and the dying that had 
come to Lourdes — the lame, the blind, the palsied, the 
epileptic, the tuberculous, the cancerous — this peasant 
girl had above all attracted the attention of Dr. Wy- 
cherley. He was there in pursuit of his life-study, psy- 
chological research, for at Lourdes there gather a 
great multitude of those who are sick in mind. Apart 
from his study of the cures that earnest faith brings to 
pass at the Shrine of Notre Dame de Lourdes, many of 
his previous cases had been garnered there — cases where 
faith had been powerless to heal the injured mind. 

This young peasant girl, scarcely more than a child, 
now on her knees on the long flight of stone steps, had 
attracted Dr. Wycherley’s attention above all the rest. 
There was that in her face that lifted her out of the 
108 


“.THEY SAY SHE IS BEWITCHED ” 


ruck of peasants. Not the beauty of her features, nor 
her soft, liquid eyes, nor her raven-black hair was it 
that first caught the attention of the observer, but the 
spiritual light in her soul that shone through her face 
as a light shines through wax. 

She might have posed as a model for a Joan of Arc 
when the call first came to her at Domremy. 

Dr. Wycherley watched the girl and the priest on 
their painful climb to the Basilique, as he had watched 
them on many days previously; he waited outside the 
church until they came from their long devotions. In 
Pere Bonivet’s face was a look of deep disappointment ; 
in the eyes of the girl was a hardened look, a glitter 
that had not been there before. The light on her soul 
no longer shone clear — it was as though a marsh mist 
had dimmed it with a clammy film. 

As the priest was hurrying her to their temporary 
home in the town, Dr. Wycherley raised his hat and 
addressed him. 

“ Mon pere” he said, “ I ask your pardon for this 
intrusion if it is unwelcome. But I, like yourself, do 
my humble best to help the weak and the suffering, and 
1 see clearly that your pilgrimage to Lourdes has not 
brought the benefit you hoped for mademoiselle.” 

“We must be patient. In God’s good time He will 
vouchsafe His mercies,” returned the priest. “ But I 
thank you. I see that you have the good heart.” 

“ If you should need me ... ” said Dr. Wycherley, 
and wrote the name of his hotel on his card. Pere 
Bonivet took the card and thanked him courteously. 
109 


THE MIND-READER 


On the evening of the next day the priest called 
on Dr. Wycherley in anxious distress of mind. 

44 I have come,” he said, 44 because I fear that this 
case is beyond my powers. It may be that I am un- 
worthy — that my soul is too stained with the cares and 
pettinesses of this world to take my prayers before the 
Most High. To-night I can do nothing with Jeanne. 
She has blasphemed against the Holy Name. She will 
not listen to me! It is terrible, pitiable! And,” he 
lowered his voice to an impressive whisper, 44 the mark 
of the beast is coming upon her ! ” He shuddered at 
his own words. 

Dr. Wycherley drew a chair forward for Pere Boni- 
vet. 44 Will you not sit down and tell me the trouble 
of mademoiselle? I have studied many cases of dis- 
eased mind, and it may be my knowledge can help. She 
is hysterique, is it not so ? ” 

44 So the doctor has told us, but in the Landes, where 
Jeanne Dorthez lives and where I go about the work 
of my Master, the peasants give it another name — a 
very terrible name. They say she is possessed — be- 
witched ! 

44 Myself I believe nothing of that,” added the 
priest hastily. 44 1 am of the modem school, and such 
things belong to the superstitions of the Middle Ages. 
So I laid the case of Jeanne Dorthez before Monseig- 
neur the Bishop, and he advised me to take her on a 
pilgrimage to Lourdes. Out of his own purse our good 
bishop gave the money that was necessary for us, for 
Jeanne is but a poor peasant girl, the daughter of a 
110 


“ THEY SAY SHE IS BEWITCHED ” 


woodcutter of the Landes, and myself I have little to 
spare.” 

“ If they say she is bewitched, then they must have 
in mind some man or woman on whom they place sus- 
picion of sorcery.” 

“ You are right, monsieur. They say that Osper 
Camargo has bewitched her. They whisper many ter- 
rible things of Osper Camargo, that he is in league 
with the Evil One; but you and I, should we put be- 
lief in the superstitious chatter of peasants?” 

The mental healer did not answer this. “ J eanne is 
a good girl,” he said ; “ it is plain for all to read. 
When her attacks come upon her, she changes in mind, 
is it not so ? ” 

“ She changes terribly. To-night she blasphemed 
against the Holy Name. I greatly fear that she may 
lose her reason.” 

“ What other signs ? ” 

“ Of course, monsieur, it is nonsense what I have now 
to tell you. But one day the women of the village 
forced her to be examined, and they whisper that upon 
her they found places where the prick of a pin was 
not felt!” 

“ Those places were of a definite and regular 
shape ? ” 

“How did monsieur guess? Yes. The shape of 
the pentacle — that is what they whisper. The doctor 
at Mont de Marsan could find nothing, and myself I 
did not believe it. But to-night I have seen the mark 
of the beast upon her ! Bed upon her breast ! ” Again 
he shuddered, and crossed himself hastily. 

Ill 


THE MIND-READER 


Dr. Wycherley looked very thoughtful. “ Let us 
go to see Jeanne,” he suggested, and from a travelling 
medicine-chest slipped a few phials into his pocket. 

The girl was lodging near at hand, and in a few 
minutes they had arrived at the house, a humble dwell- 
ing in a little back street of the town. When they were 
a few yards from the door the figure of a man slipped 
out quickly from the threshold and into the darkness of 
an alleyway. 

The priest started back. 44 For a moment I thought 
that was Osper Camargo! But the light is tricky in 
this narrow ruelle.” 

44 He has a scrawny beard and a pair of evil-looking 
eyes ? ” asked Dr. Wycherley. 

44 Camargo has that and a nose crushed by the fall 
of a pine-tree upon his face. It was at the time of the 
accident — many years ago now — that he ceased to at- 
tend Mass, and after that he gradually became feared 
by the villagers. But of course it could not be Ca- 
margo, for he is far from here in the salt-marshes of 
the Landes. There would be no reason why he should 
come to Lourdes.” 

The woman who opened the door to them put her 
finger to her lips. 44 S’sh, mon pere , she is at last 
asleep ! It was with difficulty that we could quiet her.” 

They moved softly upstairs to the room, and at Dr. 
Wycherley’s request the woman turned back the bed- 
clothes and opened the girl’s nightgown. 

Above and between her breasts, distinct and un- 
mistakable, was an angry reddish patch of the shape 
of a pentacle. 

m 


“THEY SAY SHE IS BEWITCHED” 


“ Last night I saw it for the first time ! ” whispered 
the woman, with horror in her voice. 44 To-night it is 
much redder ! Monsieur le Cure, Monsieur le Docteur, 
what can it mean?” 

Jeanne stirred in her sleep, and in her sleep mur- 
mured : 44 I will come. Oh, cease to torment me, for I 
will come ! ” 

Dr. Wycherley stayed the night through in the 
girl’s room, watching and studying her. Outside the 
window the Gave de Pau roared unceasingly down its 
torrential bed. There was menace in its voice. 

* # * * * * * 

Jeanne awoke in the morning with a curious dull 
glaze in her eyes. She expressed a strong desire to 
return home to her hamlet of Aureilhac, in spite of the 
counsels of Pere Bonivet still to have patience and faith. 

He appealed to Dr. Wycherley, but the latter drew 
him aside and suggested earnestly : 44 Let Jeanne have 
her way, mon pere. I think it will be for the best. . . . 
It is upon your lips to tell me that if she will only 
have faith enough, she will be cured. Yes, but she has 
not the faith; she has lost heart. . . . Now you are 
about to ask me what can be hoped for if the pilgrimage 
to Lourdes has failed.” 

44 You read my thoughts, monsieur! ” said the priest 
in surprise. 

44 And you, mon pere , read mine, for you see that I 
wish for Jeanne only what will be for her good.” 

44 Yes, yes. But if she goes back to the Landes 
with her faith broken, who can save her from madness? 
113 


THE MIND-READER 


I, alas, am not worthy to do this work for my Master — 
that I bow my head in sorrow to acknowledge.” 

“ We must work together; I will return with you.” 

“ But her father, Pierre Dorthez, is only a poor 
woodcutter. In the Landes we are all poor. How 
could we pay you, monsieur? No doubt you would 
need many francs — perhaps many hundred francs.” 
To his simple mind the sum loomed vast. 

“ Mon pere , you and I have both learnt that the 
true money lies in the grateful hearts of men and 
women.” 

The priest raised his hand in benediction. “ I know 
not if you are of our faith, monsieur, but may the bless- 
ing of God be upon you ! ” 

They travelled by slow, cross-country trains to the 
village of Labouheyre in the middle of the Landes dis- 
trict. It was a hot and sultry day, and the hundred- 
mile train journey seemed interminable. 

Beyond Dax they had come into the true Landes 
country — great silent pine-forests alternating with wide 
stretches of sedgy marshland. At Labouheyre their 
arrival was unexpected, but one of the villagers at once 
offered to drive them in his ox-cart to Aureilhac. It 
was an honour to do a service for Pere Bonivet. 

But Dr. Wycherley noted that the villager took 
care that Jeanne should not touch him even with her 
garment. 

The two oxen drew them along the great silent high- 
way that runs, level and straight, northwards to Bor- 
deaux, stone-paved like the streets of a town to bear 
114 


“THEY SAY SHE IS BEWITCHED ” 


the weight of the lumbering timber-waggons. The oxen 
plodded along with the slow patience which is theirs. 

The silence of the great forest fell upon them. 
Even in the full light of the afternoon the sombre forest 
carried something of the grim and awesome. No won- 
der that for the simple peasants there were still spirits 
of evil that lurked in its shadows and on Midsummer 
Eve gathered together for unholy revels out in the 
marsh of Arjuzanx. 

From time to time they would pass a solitary goat- 
herd lying down on his rough skin coat and dully guard- 
ing his little flock of long-haired goats. Once they 
caught sight of the local postman making his round 
on the stilts of the Landes to the outlying huts and 
farms, separated by stretches of marshland impassable 
on foot. 

The ox-cart turned off the highway into a forest 
track deep-rutted from its winter traffic of heavy tim- 
ber-waggons. The forest took them to its sombre 
heart. A grey film began to spread across the sky, 
shutting out the sunlight. But still it was hot and op- 
pressive. 

Late in the afternoon they reached the hamlet of 
Aureilhac — a few low-roofed wooden houses in a clear- 
ing where lean hens scratched for food. Pierre Dor- 
thez, returning from his day’s work in the forest, raised 
his hat to Pere Bonivet and greeted them dully. He 
said little, either of comment or question, but ordered 
Jeanne to make ready a dinner for the visitors. Himself 
he would kill a fowl and gather vegetables for the soup. 

As the girl set about her work, Dr. Wycherley 

115 


THE MIND-READER 


watched her keenly from his seat in the kitchen that 
served also as living-room. She was intent on her duties 
by the pot-au-feu , but there was a suppressed excite- 
ment underlying her that showed in the twitchings of 
her hands and the pallor of her face. It was no longer 
translucent in its whiteness, but of a dull and clammy 
pallor like the colour of a marsh mist. And in her 
eyes there was once more the hard glitter. Now and 
again she would secretly put her hand to her bosom as 
though to satisfy herself that something of value hid- 
den beneath her dress was still there. 

When the simple dinner was over, Dr. Wycherley 
drew Pere Bonivet aside. 

66 Where does this Osper Camargo live? ” he asked. 
“ I wish to see him.” 

“ But surely you do not believe in these supersti- 
tions of the ignorant peasants, monsieur? ” 

“ In my studies I have met many strange things, 
and I try to keep the open mind. I would see this 
man for myself.” 

“ He lives in a solitary hut out on the marshes — 
on the marsh of Arjuzanx. But do not go to-night, 
for the way is treacherous ! ” 

“ 1 must go to-night, mon pere — or it may be too 
late. Can one of the villagers show me the path ? ” 

“ At night-time they would not dare to.” 

“ Can I find it for myself? ” 

“ On the stilts there are many paths, but on foot 
only one that is safe. If you are determined to go, I 
must lead you there myself.” 

“ Thank you — I accept your help willingly. But 

116 


“THEY SAY SHE IS BEWITCHED” 


I shall ask you to return without me and keep guard 
over Jeanne while I am away.” 

The last gleams of the setting sun shone from be- 
tween an angry bank of clouds as they came out of the 
forest on to the marsh-land. The pools, stagnant with 
slime, turned to blood, then grew dark and chill. 

44 It may be a bad night, monsieur,” said the priest 
warningly. 44 See how the clouds have massed in the 
west, over the Bay of Biscay ! ” 

44 If necessary, I will spend the night with Osper 
Camargo,” answered Dr. Wycherley quietly. 

A tortuous path amongst the firmer parts of the 
marshland brought them within sight of a low hut. 
It was surrounded by a few stunted trees on ground a 
little above the general level. Around them again were 
the dark sedges, whispering amongst themselves, and 
the chill, dank pools of slime. A marsh bird called to 
its mate with a strange, eerie cry. 

44 Is the way straight from here onwards?” asked 
Dr. Wycherley at length. 

44 Yes, you have but to follow the path. Only be 
careful that you sound around you with your stick 
should the foot tread on ground that gives.” 

44 Then I would ask you to return at once to guard 
Jeanne. If necessary, give her bromide from the tab- 
lets in this phial. See to it that she does not leave the 
house to-night. Au revoir , mon pere” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE HUT ON THE MARSH 

T HE hut was silent and lightless. After knock- 
ing at the door fruitlessly, Dr. Wycherley lifted 
the latch and entered. 

It was empty save for a lean grey cat that arched 
her back and spat at him. The bigger of the two 
rooms, serving as kitchen and bedroom, showed by small 
signs that it had been unoccupied for days. There was< 
nothing to be done but to wait for the return of the 
owner, for no one at Aureilhac had been able to tell of 
his movements. 

It was a lonesome, weary vigil. The cat, refusing 
overtures of friendship, had stalked out into the night. 
The clock over the fireplace was silent, for it had run 
down during the owner’s absence. Around the room 
were tokens that this Osper Camargo worked on the 
superstitions of his neighbours, for conspicuous on the 
walls were a human skull, dead bats nailed up with 
outspread wings, snakes and blind-worms preserved 
in spirit, and other devices common to sorcerers of all 
ages. A heavy locked chest doubtless contained more 
of his paraphernalia. 

But to Dr. Wycherley the most significant object 

118 


THE HUT ON THE MARSH 


in the room was hung above the bed where the peasant 
of the Landes would place his crucifix. 

It was a small pentacle in hammered iron. 

For many hours the doctor waited patiently in the 
lightless hut. For times such as this he had trained 
himself to a habit of deep thought that lost count of 
place and time, but yet was alert to the least unusual 
sign. He had made his brain his servant to an extent 
far beyond the usual with men. 

His thoughts ran on the records in hieroglyphic 
that have come down to us of the sorcerers of ancient 
Egypt, the men who claimed that they could use the 
gods to work their will. He had spent many interest- 
ing hours with Professor Clovis Marnier, the great 
Egyptologist, listening to his demonstration of the 
meaning of the hieroglyphs. 

There was a sound out of the darkness — a plash in 
a distant pool. At the instant his watchful senses had 
flashed the message to his brain, and he was awake and 
alert. But he kept still in his chair. 

The sounds came nearer. The door opened, and a 
man entered with a lantern, under his arm a pair of 
stilts slimy from the marsh pools. Placing the lantern 
on a table, he began to lay sticks on the dead ashes of 
the hearth, the grey cat rubbing affectionately round 
his legs. He had a ragged, scrawny beard and mous- 
tache, and his nose was crushed in the way Pere Boni- 
vet had described. A face with evil lines — an evil mind 
behind it. 

He had not seen Dr. Wycherley. When at length 
he caught sight of him, sitting quietly in the chair int 
119 


THE MIND-READER 


a comer of the room, he started violently and called 
out in the harsh, twanging dialect of the Landes : “ San- 
grediable , get on your knees ! 99 

The doctor made no reply, but sat still. 

“ Who are you? 99 cried Camargo, flashing the lan- 
tern upon him. 

“ Peace, brother ! 99 answered Dr. Wycherley. 
“ Peace to you in the names of Khabbakhel and Knouri- 
phariza, our masters.” 

“ But I don’t know you ! What are you doing 
here ? ” 

“ We have met in the plane of the spirit,” answered 
Dr. Wycherley courteously. “ Though I live afar off, 
I have long wished to visit you and learn of your wis- 
dom.” 

The man was clearly puzzled. Suspicion lay be- 
hind his narrow eyes. And yet his vanity was touched. 
Dr. Wycherley had allowed no trace of irony or ridi- 
cule to appear in his words. They had a tone of grave 
deference in them. 

Osper Camargo twisted his hands uneasily. Final- 
ly he hit on a satisfactory answer: “ You want to buy 
wisdom from me — hein? ” 

“ Come ! 99 remonstrated the doctor. “ Payment be- 
tween brothers of the craft? 99 

“ If you want to learn, you pay ! 99 

“ Very well,” answered the doctor, with assumed re- 
luctance, and drew out a gold piece from his pocket. 

The man’s eyes glittered cunningly. 

“ Not enough! ” 


120 


THE HUT ON THE MARSH 


“ This I will give you beforehand, and again a louis 
when you have shown me what I do not know already. 5 * 

He showed a second gold piece. 

“ Do you know the incantation that brings the sick- 
ness upon the oxen? Or the incantation that drives 
the goats to madness? With them one can make 
money . 55 

“ Those,” answered Dr. Wycherley, “ are elemen- 
tary. I had hoped to see bigger proof of your powers. 
Even in my land they speak of the spells you can lay 
on man or woman.” 

Osper Camargo’s pride was awakened. 

“ They speak well, for I have those powers, and I 
use them. But,” a cunning glitter came again into 
his eyes, “ I work within the law. Whatever I do, it is 
such that the law cannot touch me. Oh, I am care- 
ful!” 

“ We have all to be prudent. A friend of mine, 
the great sorcerer Smith, doubtless you have heard of 
him, desired greatly a young girl of his neighbourhood, 
but she was of tender years, and the law of his country 
would not permit that he cast spells to bring her to his 
side. So he waited.” 

“ As I have waited ! ” cried Camargo fiercely. “ As 
I have waited these long years ! If the mother 
would have none of me, the child shall — and willingly ! 
It is my right ! Everything is prepared ! ” 

With a dramatic gesture he drew out a key from his 
pocket and opened the heavy oaken chest. The upper 
part of it was filled with dresses and dress material. 
There was silk and good cambric in the heap. He 
121 


THE MIND-READER 


plunged his hands into it, fondling the garments, letting 
them rustle through his fingers. 

44 A fine trousseau for the bride,” commented Dr. 
Wycherley. 46 She should be well pleased.” 

44 A bride? Maybe yes or maybe no. Of one girl 
one may get tired. Why tie oneself up with the law ? ” 
He shut the lid of the chest and turned the key. 44 But 
that is not the only reason why I desire her. No, no. 
There is another reason, a stronger reason — a reason 
that you of the craft should well know ! ” 

Now it was Dr. Wycherley’s turn to be puzzled. 
He thought he had gauged the man’s mainspring of 
action. His motive was surely horrible enough — what 
worse could lie behind? And yet it must be something 
within the law, for the man was plainly stating truth 
as to his devilish prudence. 

To gain time, Dr. Wycherley asked : 44 What is her 
name? ” 

44 Ask at Aureilhac,” answered Camargo. 44 They 
will tell you quickly enough ! ” 

There was a note of triumph in his tone that ex- 
pressed the near fulfilment of his desire. From the law 
he had nothing to fear, for the law takes no cognisance 
of wizardry as such, and it was plain that he had no 
fear of man’s intervention. Perhaps they could keep 
the girl away from his hut for a week, two weeks, a 
month even — but what of that? He had waited many 
long years. He could wait a little longer if necessary. 
Small wonder that Osper Camargo boasted openly of 
his desires. 

122 


THE HUT ON THE MARSH 


44 You do not know my second motive ! ” mocked the 
sorcerer. 

Dr. Wycherley replied deferentially: 

44 No, I am but a learner at the craft, and you are 
a master. I have come from afar to drink of your 
wisdom.” 

44 This much will I show you. To-day I procured 
it, and it completes the preparations that are neces- 
sary.” 

He flashed a small corked glass tube from his 
pocket, and quickly returned it to its shelter. In the 
fitful light from the lantern Dr. Wycherley could only 
gather the impression that it contained the dried ear 
of some cereal — barley or perhaps rye. It puzzled him 
still further. The thought of poison passed across his 
mind, but this he at once put aside. Osper Camargo 
was a coward at heart and would never risk the ven- 
geance of the law in that way. But if not poison, 
what could it mean? A dried ear of barley — or per- 
haps rye. 

44 You speak of your powers,” said Dr. Wycherley, 
44 but you give me no proof. It may be that this girl 
is in love with you and will come willingly at your call.” 

44 Ask at Aureilhac ! ” returned the sorcerer again, 
licking his lips. 44 Ask if she has been willing to come. 
But now I have her in my hands. When I crook my 
little finger, she will come.” 

From the west a flash of lightning filled the hut 
with light, showing with startling distinctness the fire 
of evil passion in the face of Osper Camargo. 

123 


THE MIND-READER 


“ Shall I give you proof of my power? ” he asked 
fiercely. 

“ For that I have journeyed from afar, and for 
that I will pay the further louis,” returned the doctor. 

The sorcerer set about his preparations quickly, 
while outside the storm gathered and the distant light- 
ning flashed. First he lit a fire on the hearth and into 
it threw some powder that gave out a strong odour of 
balsam. Next he took down the small iron pentacle 
from its nail over the bed, and hung it by a string 
round the neck of the grey cat. Then he scattered 
sand on the floor, and on the sand traced a magical 
enclosure fringed with mystic signs. In the enclosure 
he placed a small iron vessel containing a slow-burning 
pastille with a pungent odour, and next to it a rough 
wax doll, which bore a certain resemblance to Jeanne 
Dorthez. 

His preparations completed, the sorcerer began to 
recite strange incantations, swaying himself backwards 
and forwards in time to the words, beginning low and 
quietly and gradually working himself up to a pitch of 
hysterical frenzy. Finally he reached the stage where 
automatism of the lower centres holds sway in the brain. 
Writhing and foaming at the mouth, he fell in a fit upon 
the bed. After a little the jerking muscles quieted 
down ; the sorcerer was in a trance. 

Dr. Wycherley had watched with intense interest 
every detail of the fantastic operation, endeavouring 
to disentangle the essential and the significant from the 
gibberish of abracadabra and the puerilities of the wax 
doll. From the first there had been no doubt in his 
124 


THE HUT ON THE MARSH 


mind that this Osper Camargo was a dangerous man. 
The problem in hand was: how far did his powers in 
the realm of the supernormal extend? 

The anaesthetic patches on the body of Jeanne Dor- 
thez which had seemed of such horrible significance to 
the goodwives of the neighbourhood — these were a not 
unusual symptoms of a patient suffering from hysteria. 
The shape of the patches was probably the result of a 
post-hypnotic suggestion; the red mark on the breast 
of the girl could be produced by the same means. At 
the Salpetriere Hospital in Paris many such experi- 
ments have been carried out. Dr. Wycherley had no 
doubt whatever that this Osper Camargo had gained 
influence over her mind and had been working to bend 
it to his own will — the appearance on her body of the 
symbolic pentacle would react on her mind and convince 
her that she belonged to him, body and soul. 

But how would Camargo bring her over the marshes 
that night? How far did his telepathic powers extend, 
if he possessed them at all? 

Dr. Wycherley searched the room for some indica- 
tion that might have escaped him, and suddenly he 
found it. It was a negative indication — during the 
rigamarole of the incantations and the rhythmic sway- 
ings the grey cat had slipped out of the room. 

At once a vivid mental picture came before his eyes 
of the cat padding swiftly over the dark path through 
the marshes — through the forest to the hamlet of Au- 
reilhac — reaching the low wooden house of the Dorthez 
— scratching at the bedroom window of the girl — 
Jeanne opening the window at the call and seeing the 
1 25 


THE MIND-READER 


pentacle around its neck, the sign of her master — dress- 
ing swiftly and slipping out of the window — following 
it back to the marsh of Arjuzanx and the hut of the 
sorcerer. 

How could he wrest the girl from the power of 
Osper Camargo? It would be difficult in the extreme. 
[With her mind so under the power of the sorcerer, coun- 
ter-suggestions might be of very little effect. Was 
there no way in which the law could step in, so that 
this man’s power of working evil would be fettered? 

Perhaps there might be some hope of this if he 
could discover the ulterior purpose at which Camargo 
had hinted. His eye turned to the oaken chest, and 
at once he went over to it. In his excitement, Camargo 
had forgotten to take away the key. 

Dr. Wycherley swiftly opened it and turned over 
the pile of garments, seeking for something hidden in 
the box which might give him a clue to the great ulte- 
rior motive. His hand brushed against parchment, and 
he drew it out and took it over to the light — a parch- 
ment yellow with age and written in faded ink with 
words of French many centuries old. But it was pos- 
sible to get its general purport, even if single words 
here and there conveyed no meaning: 

The Potion 

Of Which Whosoever Shall Drink Shall 
Become Immortal. 

It was a lengthy recipe full of such ingredients as 
the eyes of bats, the powdered forehand of a toad, broth 
of blindworms, and others nauseating in the extreme, 
126 



“ ‘Keep away from me, for I am accursed!’ ” 











THE HUT ON THE MARSH 


but the culmination of the recipe sent a chill of horror 
coursing down the doctor’s spine. Though he had 
watched by the bedside of raving madmen, he had never 
had to listen to imaginings so devilish as this. His eye 
ran over it hurriedly before he thrust it into his pocket 
to bring if necessary before a court of law: 

“ . . . a maiden undefiled , a first-born . . . when 
she is with child ... an infusion of the spotted rye 
i. . . the left eye and the right ear . . . see to it that 
you both drink the potion together ...” 

Dr. Wycherley realised as never before the feelings 
of our ancestors when, centuries ago, they had had to 
deal with the sorcerers of their age. Small wonder 
that they had lynched at the stake men who put into 
practice what had been written on this old parchment. 
Small wonder that in their zeal to stamp out such devil- 
ish imaginings, they had persecuted the innocent as well 
as the guilty. 

Outside the lightning flashed and the thunder tore 
across the swishing rain, but through the noise Dr. Wy- 
cherley sensed a footstep. He moved towards the door, 
but at the same moment the man on the bed stirred and 
rose up. He, too, had sensed the presence outside, the 
presence for which he in his trance was feverishly wait- 
ing. 

Osper Camargo thrust back the doctor and strode 
to fling open the door. And as he did so, as he stepped 
out of the threshold to lay hand on the girl who had 
come at the call of the grey cat, a blinding flash of 
lightning, followed on the instant by the roar of thunder 
from directly overhead, struck upon him. 

127 


THE MIND-READER 


The sorcerer staggered back, his hands to his eyes, 
moaning horribly. 

Groping, he blundered about the room, and a tor- 
rent of blasphemies poured from his lips as he realised 
what had come upon him. Then, little by little, the 
stream of imprecations died down, and as the girl moved 
to his side, shivering in her sodden clothes, Osper cried 
out pitifully, in a voice so changed from his previous 
tone that Dr. Wycherley started at it : ‘ 6 Keep away 
from me, for I am accursed! The judgment of God is 
upon me. He has struck me blind for my sins ! 99 

He fell on his knees, and as from a little child there 
came from him the prayer of the Paternoster. One 
of those strange instantaneous conversions, the rationale 
of which is so veiled from us, had been witnessed. For 
a long hour, until exhaustion set in, the sorcerer laid 
bare his soul before his Maker and prayed for forgive- 
ness. Let it be granted to him that he should work out 
his salvation in the cell of a monk, sworn to perpetual 
silence, and he would be content. 

* * * * * * 

When the morning broke through the grey mists of 
the marshes, Dr. Wycherley and Jeanne Dorthez were 
leading by the hand over the marsh-path a blind man 
who murmured continuously the prayers he had learnt 
in his youth. 

Behind them smoke curled up from the hut of the 
sorcerer that was. Dr. Wycherley had set fire to it 
so that the ghastly tokens and records it contained 
might never fall into the hands of any human being. 


128 


CHAPTER XII 


A man’s honour at stake 

I T would be a second judgment of Paris to have to 
choose between the rival claims of Isola Salvatore 
in spring, in summer and in autumn. Dr. Wycher- 
ley made no such attempt. He was content to watch 
the changing seasons in his beloved garden with the 
feeling that each was bringing to him a new unfolding 
of his children, the trees and shrubs and flowers. They 
grew up around him revealing new beauties, more per- 
fect beauties, with each succeeding year. 

But he was never content to rest at Isola Salvatore 
with his garden, his laboratory and his splendid library 
of psychological science if any call came for his services 
from outside. His real laboratory was the whole civil- 
ised world. Sometimes he would travel to seek new 
cases ; sometimes they would come to him at his London 
consulting-room or at his island home. 

It was one May that Sir Christopher Hemmerde 
travelled to Lake Rovellasco in order to consult the 
mental healer. The two men were seated in the garden 
under the wide-spread branches of a cypress from Cash- 
mere, its weeping foliage blue-green like some giant 
cyanophyllous seaweed. To one side was a clump of 
Japanese bamboo so delicately, so ethereally green as 
129 


THE MIND-READER 


to vibrate with a song of youth eternal. Trailing high 
over a broad-leaved camphor tree from Celebes was a 
white Banksia rose in full flower, like a bevy of little 
children scrambling joyously over a good-natured 
uncle to find what toys and sweets he had brought for 
them in his many pockets. 

“ My honour is at stake,” said Sir Christopher 
Hemmerde. 

He sat very upright in the chair that had been 
placed for him — a broad-shouldered, full-blooded man 
of forty-eight, with a close-trimmed moustache and 
beard turning from brown to grey, with firm, authorita- 
tive look and the poise of a man of power. He was the 
head of the great banking and financial house of Hem- 
merde, Maddison and Co., Lothbury, London, E. C. 
His* knighthood stood in recognition of his financial 
abilities and of the big sums he had given to promi- 
nent charities. In a few years’ time he would, in the 
orderly progression of the mayoral candidature, become 
Lord Mayor of London, titular head of the greatest 
city in the world. 

“ A man’s honour lies with himself and with his 
wife,” answered Dr. Wycherley, with his little manner- 
ism of veiling a question under a statement. 

“ In this case, with neither. The case is a most 
unusual one — a most delicate one. I am very loth to 
put it in the hands of a detective, and hearing of your 
peculiar powers of mind-reading, I have come to you.” 

Dr. Wycherley did not respond to this. Detective 
work was strongly distasteful to him unless it were to 
130 


A MAN’S HONOUR AT STAKE 


open out fresh experiences in the realm of the human 
mind. He waited to hear further. 

Sir Christopher continued, with more than a little 
self-importance : 44 Mj honour as a business man is in- 
volved. As you will know, in a business such as mine, 
matters are confided to the heads of the firm which must 
rigorously be kept secret. Now it has happened three 
times in the last twelve months that private information 
has leaked out from my office. This last time, it was 
information that precipitated the disastrous run on the 
Essex Bank. It is vital that I find the leak — and 
stop it.” 

44 Surely that is a problem for a business expert,” 
answered the doctor, somewhat coldly. Money matters 
held no interest whatever for him, and he resented the 
implication that he was being consulted as a kind of 
glorified detective, ready to sell his skill to any man for 
sufficiently high pay. 

44 No. Because I know that the leak can lie only 
with one of two men, my partner and my confidential 
secretary.” 

44 That means three men — your partner, your sec- 
retary, and yourself.” 

44 Naturally.” The banker brushed aside the cor- 
rection as of no consequence. 44 And I must know 
which.” 

44 1 am sorry, but the case is not one I should care 
to handle.” 

44 Why not, sir?” The banker’s face flushed; a 
vein throbbed angrily in his temple. 44 1 have made a 
personal journey to Italy to consult you. The affair 
131 


THE MIND-READER 


is one of urgent importance. In a few years I shall in 
due course be elected to the office of Lord Mayor, and 
my business reputation is a matter of the utmost concern 
to myself and to ... ” He stopped short, having 
tangled his sentence. 

“ And to . . . ? ” urged Dr. Wycherley. 

“ Well, if I must say it, to the City of London.” 

“ Scarcely that, Sir Christopher. Of the utmost 
concern to yourself — yes. But to others — why?” 

The banker suddenly felt small — a most unusual 
feeling for him. His hand fidgetted with his collar, and 
he cleared his throat uneasily. 

“ Is there no stronger reason why I should put my 
time and skill at your service ? ” continued the doctor. 

“ Well, I don’t know if this reason would appeal to 
you. On my return to London I propose either to 
break with my life-long partner, or to dismiss my 
private secretary, whom I have helped and trusted since 
he was a lad. Probably it will be the latter, and yet he 
may be a perfectly innocent man.” 

“ In other words, the honour of three men is in- 
volved. That is a stronger reason than your Lord 
Mayorship, Sir Christopher.” The rebuke was gentle 
but pointed. “ One question : there is always the possi- 
bility that secrets may leak out through a man’s rela- 
tions — have you eliminated that possibility? ” 

“ In my case, I tell my business secrets to nobody — * 
not even to my wife. I expect the same principle from 
my associates. If they confide my affairs to their re- 
lations, I consider that as criminal as open betrayal.” 

Dr. Wycherley accompanied the banker back to 

132 


A MAN’S HONOUR AT STAKE 


London, but Sir Christopher felt considerably disap- 
pointed in him. He had expected to find a man who 
could read his every thought at a glance. He had 
rather expected to buy ready-made miracles at (say) a 
hundred guineas apiece, with a five per cent discount 
for cash. He did not realise that the psychic sense of 
the mental healer required very peculiar conditions for 
its highest effort, and that it was out of the question to 
ask him for miraculous readings at any arbitrary mo- 
ment. 

Sir Christopher was grimed with money, and the 
temperament of the scientist was outside his range of 
comprehension. 

Proceeding by branch lines, they caught the night 
express at Lugano, and shared a wagon-lit over the St. 
Gothard route, and so by Basle and Chalons to Calais- 
Dover and London. On the journey, Dr. Wycherley 
outlined his plan of action : 

“ I shall want to study Mr. Maddison and Mr. West 
when they are off guard. That is essential. On guard, 
a man can control his thoughts — put armour around 
them. I make no pretension to cope with a mind-ar- 
moured man.” 

“Yes?” said Hemmerde coldly. This scientific 
freakness made no appeal to him. He would have been 
much more impressed by the boastings of a charlatan. 
What he looked for, in fact, was a modern Cagliostro or 
Nostradamus. Dr. Wycherley realised that to the full, 
but he had no intention of degrading his science by any 
cheap and flashy impressiveness. 

“ Shakespeare has given us the model for this case,” 

133 


THE MIND-READER 


pursued the doctor. “ Hamlet — the play scene. 
Hamlet studying the King while the mimic drama is 
being enacted before them. Is there a play now on in 
London where the conditions resemble yours ? ” 

The banker thought over this for a little. 

“ There is a play of Henri Bernstein’s called 4 The 
Thief.’ I have not seen it, but I understand that the 
plot hinges on a theft of money at a country house, 
and that everyone of the house party is under suspicion. 
But that is hardly a good analogy to my case.” 

44 It may serve. Will you engage a first-circle 
box ? ” 

44 For us four? ” 

“For you three. I shall sit in a dress-circle seat 
convenient for observation. Between the acts I may 
come to you.” 

44 Perhaps it would be less suspicious if I ask Lady 
Hemmerde to give the invitation? ” 

44 As you please.” 

44 You will stay with us, of course? ” 

46 After the test — yes. But not before. My pres- 
ence in London ought not to be known.” 

44 The Thief,” that big success of the Paris, London 
and New York stages, was just starting its run at the 
St. James’ Theatre, with George Alexander and Irene 
Vanbrugh in the chief parts. In his usual scientific 
thoroughness, Dr. Wycherley made a matinee visit to 
the play in order to familiarise himself with the plot 
and its developments before the evening of the arranged 
theatre-party. He was thus in a position to give un- 
divided attention to the occupants of the first-circle box. 

134 


A MAN’S HONOUR AT STAKE 


In the two front seats sat Lady Hemmerde and 
Angus Maddison, Sir Christopher’s partner. Behind 
were Sir Christopher himself and West, his confidential 
secretary. 

Lady Hemmerde was decidedly plain. In spite of 
her position as the wife of a great banker, she looked a 
timid, colourless, insignificant little woman, more fitted 
to act as hostess in a suburban drawing-room than at 
the Mansion House, which would in due course be her 
duty. Not knowing that she had been an heiress, and 
that her whole fortune had been turned over to the 
banker, Dr. Wycherley wondered why Sir Christopher 
had married her. It was evident at a glance that she 
was not a woman to whom the masterful banker would 
confide the secrets of his business. 

Angus Maddison interested the doctor very greatly. 
He was a tall, lean, sandy Scotchman with keen, quick- 
moving eyes and an exceptionally keen intellect. The 
somewhat conscious self-importance of Sir Christopher 
was entirely absent. Dr. Wycherley docketted him as 
a self-made man and the brains of the firm. 

West, the secretary, formed a complete contrast. 
He was the typical employee — a man born to lean on 
others, a man born to carry out orders. The doctor 
noted the slight deferential droop of the shoulders as 
he sat beside his employer and benefactor, evidently 
much flattered by the honour of the evening’s invitation. 

Previous to the rising of the curtain, the doctor had 
injected into himself a drug — one of the pyridyl-novo- 
caine derivatives — which has the peculiar effect of tem- 
porarily paralysing the auditory nerve. It renders a 
135 


THE MIND-READER 


man deaf for a period of time dependent on the strength 
of the dose. In this way he screened out of his con- 
sciousness the spoken traffic of the stage, and allowed 
his brain to concentrate on the delicate waves of 
thought. The action and gestures of the players would 
tell him at any time of the developments of the plot, 
so that he could synchronise them with the thoughts 
they aroused in the minds of the people he was so in- 
tently watching. 

The doctor leant back in his balcony stall with every 
muscle relaxed, concentrating on his mental task. 

The first act of “ The Thief ” is merely introductory 
— a prelude to the great second act, a bedroom scene 
in which a husband worms out of his wife a confession 
of her theft. The drama of this second act gripped 
the whole house to straining tenseness. To look on the 
rows of faces behind and around one was to realise that 
the spectators were living in a mimic world forgetful 
of realities — were living through every emotion of the 
guilty wife and the horror-stricken husband. When at 
length the curtain fell on the second act, there was a 
perceptible interval of silence before the spectators 
came back to a remembrance that this was acting and 
that the actors were waiting for their recognition. 

Of the whole house there was perhaps not one ex- 
cept Dr. Wycherley who did not then break into heart- 
felt applause. But the doctor sat silent, working out 
the significance of the real-life drama which had been 
unfolded to his keen senses. 

******* 


136 


A MAN’S HONOUR AT STAKE 


At the close of the play, when the effect of his in- 
jection had worn off, Dr. Wycherley made his way to 
the first-circle box. Sir Christopher introduced him to 
the three members of his party, and all five drove in 
the banker’s limousine to his sombre, dignified house 
in Manchester Square, where supper was served them 
before they separated for the night. 

The conversation, limited to surface conventional- 
ities, held little of interest until the supper-party had 
broken up and Sir Christopher and the doctor were 
alone in the library. 

“ Well? ” said the former, his tone showing a sup- 
pressed impatience for the results of the doctor’s inves- 
tigation. “ Have you discovered anything? ” 

“ Yes — part of the truth.” 

“ Who is the betrayer? ” 

Dr. Wycherley picked out a cigarette from an open 
box, turning his head away as he did so. 

66 I know the betrayer,” he answered quietly, “ but I 
do not yet know the reason for the betrayal.” 

“ That’s of little consequence.” 

“ I am not so sure. It may be of very great conse- 
quence.” 

“ Be good enough to tell me what you have discov- 
ered, and I shall then be in a position to judge.” 

“ I would prefer to wait a little, Sir Christopher.” 

The banker flushed angrily. Clearly he was not 
accustomed to having his wishes thwarted. He twitched 
at his collar as though his nerves were not under control. 

“ Explain yourself, sir ! ” 

Dr. Wycherley, struck by a sudden thought, took 

137 


THE MIND-READER 


up a green-shaded electric lamp from a table near by 
and held it up so that its light fell full on the banker’s 
face. 

44 Please be still for a moment,” he ordered. 44 I 
want to examine you.” 

The surprise of the action held the banker speech- 
less for a moment. 

44 Have you ever suffered from nerve derange- 
ment? ” 

“I? But . . . ! Whatever has this to do with 
my own question? ” 

44 Possibly a good deal. Have you ever consulted 
a nerve specialist? ” 

44 Never! Why should I? Pm perfectly healthy.” 

Dr. Wycherley replaced the lamp on its table. His 
studious silence made direct contradiction to Sir Chris- 
topher’s statement. 

44 You think I ought to have my nerves looked 
into? ” faltered the banker. 

44 I should certainly advise it.” 

44 Then will . . . will you examine me? ” 

“ I am here not as a doctor but as a detective,” an- 
swered the mental healer. 44 That was, I think, the 
role you assigned to me. I will therefore give you the 
name of a nerve specialist, and I would strongly ad- 
vise you to call on him to-morrow.” 

He scribbled a name and address on a sheet of 
paper, and handed it to Sir Christopher. 

44 But — the betrayer? Am I to infer . . . ? You 
surely do not mean to suggest that I, that I myself 
. . ? It’s absurd ! Preposterous ! Unbelievable ! ” 
138 


A MAN’S HONOUR AT STAKE 


44 I think we had better leave further discussion of 
this matter until after you have seen the specialist,” 
returned Dr. Wycherley with gentle decisiveness. 
44 Meanwhile, it grows late. Shall we say good-night? ” 

He held out his hand and took leave of his host. 

In his bedroom, Sir Christopher opened the com- 
municating door of their rooms in order to talk to his 
wife while undressing. 

44 That queer-looking man I brought home to-night 
tells me I ought to see a nerve specialist,” he growled, 
not troubling himself with a courteous tone of voice 
in addressing his wife. 44 Rubbish ! Sheer rubbish ! 
... Have you noticed anything wrong about me? ” 

If he could have seen his wife at the moment of 
that question, he would have seen her turn white and 
trembling. But there was a wall between them. She 
answered timidly : 44 1 don’t know. I think perhaps 
. . . perhaps it would be well for you to see the special- 
ist.” 

Hemmerde strode into his wife’s room. 

44 What’s wrong with me? ” he demanded. 

44 Nothing, dear, nothing!” she hastened to reply. 
44 But just as a matter of precaution, perhaps it would 
be as well ... At your age.” 

Hemmerde made no answer to this. He finished his 
undressing and went to bed, but before retiring he 
started the mechanism of a roll-cylinder phonograph in 
the bedroom. This was to play him to sleep. He had 
found that it soothed his nerves, and it had now be- 
come an established habit of his. 

Soon he was sleeping stertorously. 

139 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE ONE WHO BETRAYED 

A T eleven o’clock the next morning Dr. Wycher- 
ley went to call at Manchester Square. As he 
expected, Sir Christopher was away at business 
— or perhaps at the Harley Street consultant’s. The 
doctor then asked to see Lady Hemmerde. 

She came to him in the great ornate drawing-room, 
furnished with ponderous decorative effect like some 
state apartment in a show palace. It was not a wom- 
an’s room, but a man’s — clearly Sir Christopher him- 
self had chosen the furnishings. In this huge room 
Lady Hemmerde looked even more insignificant and in- 
consequential than the evening before — a timid, colour- 
less little woman to outward seeming. 

But Dr. Wycherley had read deeper into her. 

44 I had no opportunity of speaking to you alone 
last night,” he began, 46 so I have taken upon myself 
to call at this unusual hour. Will you excuse me?” 

44 Of course — I am always very pleased to welcome 
any friend of my husband’s. Won’t you sit down?” 
answered Lady Hemmerde with colourless convention- 
ality. 

44 Last night I was acting in your interests,” contin- 
ued the doctor, 44 and I want you to know how and 
why.” 


140 


THE ONE WHO BETRAYED 


44 You mean about advising my husband to see a 
specialist? ” 

“ Yes.” 

44 I told him that it might be as well to take your 
advice.” 

44 That, Lady Hemmerde, was merely a side issue.” 

44 1 don’t understand.” 

44 1 will explain. But first, let me assure you that 
what I am going to ask is in no way a prying into your 
private affairs.” The doctor’s voice held a world of 
gentle sympathy. 44 1 do not presume to set myself 
up as judge. I only want to understand. Tell me 
this : why did you give away that private knowledge of 
your husband’s which led to the ruin of the Essex 
Bank?” 

Lady Hemmerde quivered like a bird in the hand 
of a captor. Her cheeks went chalk-white. But she 
answered : 

44 You must be making some great mistake. My. 
husband tells me nothing of his private affairs.” 

44 True — but yet you know of them. I will tell you 
how you know. Sir Christopher travelled to Italy to 
consult me, and we came back together in a night ex- 
press. We shared a wagon-lit compartment. I then 
discovered that Sir Christopher talks in his sleep.” 

44 No doubt. But your inference is altogether 
wrong. My husband and I — I really don’t know why 
I should be telling you these details — my husband and 
I occupy separate rooms.” 

There was fire in her words now ; she was a woman 
at bay. 


141 


THE MIND-READER 


Dr. Wycherley realised that he had failed to make 
the sympathy contact — that Lady Hemmerde sus- 
pected him of hostile intentions. He therefore tried 
once more to gain her confidence. 

“You believe that I am here to accuse you; but, 
on the contrary, I am here to shield you. Your hus- 
band has no suspicion whatever — at present — that you 
have become aware of his business secrets. I have not 
told him — nor do I wish to tell him. Come, Lady Hem- 
merde, look close at me and read my sincerity. ... I 
know — I know — that you learnt from him of the peril- 
ous condition of the Essex Bank. I know that you gave 
it away to someone else. Why you should have done 
so is frankly inexplicable to me. Your motive is be- 
yond me. Such a betrayal seems altogether opposed 
to your true self. . . . There must have been some 
overwhelming reason.” 

“ I tell you again, you are utterly mistaken,” she 
retorted with set lips. 

Dr. Wycherley rose quietly and took up his hat. 

“ You leave me only one inference,” he said. “ I 
shall have to report to Sir Christopher this : that if he 
did not give away his business affairs in his sleep to you, 
it must have been to — some other woman.” 

A bitter cry came from Lady Hemmerde: “You 
are merciless ! ” 

“ As a surgeon is merciless.” 

“ Why do you persist in doubting my word? Am I 
a woman who would betray my own ? ” 

And with that the key to the mystery lay in Dr. 
Wycherley’s hand. 

142 


THE ONE WHO BETRAYED 


u No, you are not ! I see now that you are trying 
to protect not yourself but someone dear to you. It is 
the mother instinct ” 

He had at last touched the right chord. There 
were tears in her eyes as she cried : 

“ Can’t you see that I’ve been trying to protect 
him ? ” 

“ Whom?” 

“ My husband!” 

Very gently Dr. Wycherley answered: 

“ Then I am indeed intruding. I ask your forgive- 
ness. I will leave now, and you will not see me again. 
I shall return at once to my home in Italy.” 

66 No, stay — listen first to what I have to tell. You 
have divined so much that you had best know all. Sit 
down and I will tell you. Perhaps you will be able to 
help me.” 

She dried her tears and began with a new trust and 
hope in her voice : 

“ I have no children, and the mother instinct in me 
has gone out to my husband. He thinks that he needs 
no one’s help, but I have always been at his elbow with- 
out his knowing it, from the day of my marriage when 
my whole fortune passed into his hands. I have borne 
him no children, and he seems to feel that he owes noth- 
ing to me. . . . 

“ Two years ago we were in Brussels. One night 
he left me to go to a theatre — so he said. He did not 
return to the hotel until six o’clock the next morning. 
He did not know that I knew, and I said nothing. 

“ When we returned to London a man and a woman 

143 


THE MIND-READER 


called here one afternoon and asked to see me. She 
said . . . she said ... I can’t repeat to you what it was 
she said. It was blackmail. They had even taken 
a photograph of my husband — a horrible, disgraceful 
photograph. They wanted money, and I was fright- 
ened and gave them what I had in return for a promise 
of silence.” 

“ I understand now,” said Dr. Wycherley gently. 
“ In order that your husband’s reputation might be 
saved — in order that he might become Lord Mayor of 
London without an open stain on his character — you 
paid hush-money. Once you had paid, their demands 
became heavier ...” 

66 And at last I had not money enough to satisfy 
them. As I told you, my whole fortune went to my 
husband at marriage. ... So I had to pay them in 
another way. They suggested that I should give them 
business information which could be turned into money. 
Every time they said it was to be the last demand, and 
every time they lied ! ” 

“ You need not tell me more.” 

“ You had best know all. . . . My husband has a 
peculiar fancy for a phonograph to play him to sleep, 
and his machine is always in his bedroom at night. 
One evening, after dinner, we amused ourselves by taking 
records of our own voices, and amongst those records 
was one of Mr. Angus Maddison’s voice, my husband’s 
partner. ... I know that Christopher very often mut- 
tered a great deal in his sleep. It has something to do, 
I think, with a hidden nervous affection of his.” 

“ Yes, there would be a decided connection.” 

144 


THE ONE WHO BETRAYED 


44 One night, driven to desperation, the thought 
came to me to creep into Christopher’s room and place 
in the machine the record of Mr. Maddison’s voice. I 
did so, and as soon as he heard it, Christopher began 
to answer and talk of confidential business matters. 
And that was how I came to learn his secrets. . . . ” 

44 My dear Lady Hemmerde, I feel more than ever 
an intruder.” 

44 Can’t you help me ? ” she pleaded. 

44 1 can only advise you to tell your husband every- 
thing — everything. He must defend his own honour 
in the way that seems best to him. ... I wish I could 
indeed help you, but like every other man I have my 
many limitations. ... A man’s honour lies with himself 
and with his wife. You have done what lay in your 
power to protect him; now he must stand by himself. 
He must be awakened.” 

There was the sound of a motor drawing up by the 
front door. 

44 That will be your husband. I will say good-bye 
now. Good-bye, and courage ! ” 

On the doorstep Dr. Wycherley came face to face 
with Sir Christopher. 

44 Well, sir?” demanded the latter. 44 When am I 
to hear the results ? ” 

44 Your wife is waiting to tell you,” said the mental 
healer. 

44 Shall I see you later in the day? ” 

44 1 have an important call to Cambridge.” 

44 But ... ! ” 

44 Your wife is waiting for you, Sir Christopher.” 

145 


CHAPTER XIV 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 

T HE sudden call to Cambridge was in connection 
with the University department of experimental 
psychology and psychiatry, then being re-or- 
ganised. Dr. Wycherley’s European reputation in the 
science of the mind had led to his being invited to Cam- 
bridge by the Senate to give his opinion on the new 
plans, and at the same time to deliver a short series 
of lectures to the medical faculty of the University. 

As a general rule, the doctor hated lectures. 
Speaking to human beings in the mass means having 
to address oneself to an average intelligence, to aver- 
age prejudices and average sympathies — while Dr. Wy- 
cherley was at his best in dealing with the individual 
intelligence, prejudices or sympathies. He almost pre- 
ferred the trouble of speaking to fifty people separately 
to the ineffectiveness of addressing them en masse . 
Public addresses constrained him, and he had a little 
touch of human vanity which made him disagreeably 
conscious that lectures did not do him justice. 

However, in this case he had consented to speak be- 
cause it was an unique opportunity to hit out from 
the shoulder at the conservatism of the British medical 
profession in general and the ’Varsity don in particular. 
146 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 


Oxford and Cambridge were at that time, as regards 
mind-conscience, far behind the schools and clinics of 
the Continent and the States. He intended to tell Cam- 
bridge so in words that they would probably never for- 
give but certainly would never forget. 

This series of lectures, arresting in their boldness if 
unpalatable to the majority of his audience, kept Dr. 
Wycherley in the University city from the end of May 
to the end of June. It was thus that he came indirect- 
ly in contact with the mysterious death of Professor 
Creighton Adams, which took place during “ Mays 
.Week.” The tragic occurrence was heightened by its 
contrast with the joyous festivities of that glorious 
week when Cambridge is a kaleidoscope of flannel-clad 
young heroes and dainty English girlhood, with the 
requisite escort of parents and aunts and uncles ; when 
the days and nights are a whirl of luncheon parties and 
riverings, dances and suppers, flirtations and quickly- 
born romances. 

Professor Creighton Adams had been found in a 
huddled heap on the floor of the “ sloth room ” in the 
Cambridge Biological Museum shortly after nine o’clock 
on the morning of Thursday, June 4th. Weston, the 
museum attendant, had discovered the body when he 
unlocked the doors of the museum and was proceeding 
■with the routine of his morning duties. 

The corpse was cold and stark, set in a death rigor 
for many hours past. That the cause of death was 
strangulation, Weston saw at a glance. The claw- 
marks around the neck carried their own grim tale. 

Weston gave the alarm at once. The doors of the 

147 


THE MIND-READER 


museum were closed, # and police and doctor were at once 
sent for. White-faced in spite of his service in the 
Army and his record at the shambles of Dargai, the at- 
tendant led them to the huddled form lying in the silence 
of the sloth room, surrounded by cases of skeletons, 
mounted specimens in the open, and many oddments 
relative to the animal group of tree-sloths and grOund- 
sloths. 

This room — on the ground floor — was in the mak- 
ing. It was the special domain of Professor Adams, 
who had a world-wide reputation in the morphology and 
physiology of the South American fauna. In fact, the 
specimens in the unfinished room were largely his own 
spoils from the expedition to the Upper Amazon which 
he had headed with such striking success a year pre- 
viously. He had brought back in particular several 
hides, skeletons and preserved limbs of a new giant 
sloth hitherto unknown to science. It was closely allied 
to the monster fossil sloths of the pleistocene epoch, 
though only half their size. Still, a formidable beast 
some five feet in length. 

Professor Adams had also managed by unusual 
good luck to bring a living specimen of his new find 
back to Cambridge. In order to study its habits close- 
ly, he kept it caged in one room of his private research 
suite, also on the ground floor. 

Scarcely had the group of officials reached the dead 
body of the professor, when loud cries for help echoed 
through the building from a room somewhere below 
them. Most of them rushed towards the stone stair- 
148 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 


case leading to the basement, and down the steps, pell- 
mell, in the direction of the sounds. 

It was in the whale room that they found Haines, 
a laboratory assistant, battering fiercely with a chair 
at the heaving, palpitating body of a giant sloth. He 
had managed to split its skull, and blood was streaming 
over the grey fur — patched with blue-green from the 
algae which curiously make their habitation on the 
bodies of the sloths, like mould on the trunks of trees. 

The limbs, armed with vicious curved triple claws, 
splayed around in the animal’s death agony. Then it 
rolled over on the floor and lay still. Haines, a man 
of fifty odd, panting stertorously from the terror of the 
fight, gasped out broken words of explanation: 

44 Brute was hiding ... in here . . . flew at 
me . . . muster got loose . . . somehow . . . vicious 
beast ! ” 

44 He’s killed the professor.” 

44 Killed the . . . professor ! . . . Good God ! ” 

44 How did it get loose? ” This from the inspector 
of police. 

Haines looked at him speechlessly for a moment. 
Then the answer : 44 How should I know ? ” 

Arthur Lethbridge, a demonstrator of zoology and 
a co-worker with the dead professor, put in a word: 
44 The cage is on the floor above, in the research rooms.” 

The group went quickly upstairs to inspect the iron- 
barred cage. Then they were joined by the doctor, 
who had been examining the corpse minutely. 

44 Professor Adams has been dead some nine or ten 

149 


THE MIND-READER 


hours,” he said. “ The animal must have broken loose 
last night.” 

But it was not a case of breaking loose. The in- 
spector pointed out that the lock was intact, and that 
the animal must have simply pushed up the bar of the 
cage-door, swung it open, and walked out. It must be 
by some oversight that the key had not been turned 
in the lock. 

“Who has the key of the cage?” asked the in- 
spector. 

Weston replied: “ The professor always kept it him- 
self. Sometimes he’d go into the cage and pet the ani- 
mal. A mad thing to do, I call it.” 

They went back to the body, and the inspector 
searched the pockets of the dead man for the key. He 
found it on a ring with some other keys of the labora- 
tories, and was replacing the bunch when young Mrs. 
Adams burst in upon them. 

The scene of grief that followed was painful in the 
extreme, and the group of men tiptoed away until the 
inspector of police alone was left with her. This beau- 
tiful, frail young girl had been married only two months 
to the professor. Last night, when he had been work- 
ing late at the museum, she had been dancing at one of 
the many college balls of “ Mays Week.” His death 
must have taken place while the gaiety was at its height. 
The thought of that contrast stabbed her with remorse. 
In the agony of the moment she magnified her very 
natural love of gaiety to a callous heartlessness. She 
tortured herself with the thought that if she had stayed 
150 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 


at home, and he with her, this tragedy would never have 
occurred. 

The inspector remained respectfully silent until the 
grief-stricken girl addressed to him a broken question: 

“ When . . . how . . . how did it happen ? ” 

The inspector explained the facts to her as he knew 
them, concluding with : “ It looks, madam, as if the 
professor must have left the cage unlocked by acci- 
dent.” 

Then it was that Blanche Adams burst out with 
her passionate accusation: 

“ I don’t believe it ! Someone let the animal loose ! 
My husband has been murdered ! ” 

******* 

While the tragedy had aroused Dr. Wycherley’s in- 
terest, in view of Mrs. Adams’ impassioned accusation, 
he was not directly concerned in the matter until one 
evening in late June when his gyp brought him a card 
with the inscription : “ J. Hammerton Clark. Scotland 
Yard.” 

The doctor occupied temporarily a suite of those 
rooms in Neville’s Court, Trinity, which are reserved 
for distinguished guests of the college. He gave or- 
ders to have the detective shown in to the oak-panelled 
study where he was now engaged in drafting out his 
final lecture of the series. 

J. Hammerton Clark was a man of consequence in 
his own world, and his manner showed that he realised 
it to the full. He had the inquisitorial eyes of the 
cross-examining counsel, a dark moustache curtaining 
151 


THE MIND-READER 


the expression of his mouth, and an authoritative bear- 
ing. In age he was something under forty. 

“ Well, sir,” he began, and the inflexion on the 
word “ sir ” was that of equal addressing equal, “ you 
are no doubt wondering why a Scotland Yard man 
should be calling on you? 99 

“ For help,” returned the doctor with his quiet smile. 
“ This is not the first time I have been approached by 
the police.” 

A shade disconcerted, the detective continued: “No 
doubt you know that we Scotland Yard men can’t in- 
terfere in these country murders until the county police 
definitely call us in. By the time I arrived here, the 
local people had bungled the Adams case into a hor- 
rible mess.” 

“ Quite probable. But why should you expect me 
to be interested in such a matter? I have many 
duties of my own to attend to, and, frankly, police 
work as such makes no appeal to me.” 

“ This case will interest you, sir,” answered J. Ham- 
merton Clark boldly, though the word “ sir 99 was now 
inflected as from one addressing a superior. 

“ Why, pray? ” 

“ I went to your last lecture. A fine lecture, that ! 
As a practical man, I thoroughly agree with what you 
said about the neglect in England of psychology in 
relation to crime.” 

Dr. Wycherley would have been less than human if 
he had not been inwardly gratified at this appreciation. 

“Well?” he asked. “Why should this case 
specially appeal to me? 99 


152 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 


“ Because the one break in my chain is the criminal’s 
motive. The murder seems purposeless.” 

44 You are certain that it was murder and not acci- 
dent? ” 

44 No. I’ll be perfectly open with you. If I can’t 
find a motive for the crime, I shall have to let it go as 
accident.” 

44 Then you want me to help you run some man’s 
neck into the hangman’s noose? ” 

44 Remember, sir, 4 Every unpunished crime is the 
parent of further crime,’ ” quoted the detective from a 
standard legal work. He continued slyly : 44 It may 
interest you to know that the criminal is at the present 
moment in Neville’s Court.” 

The doctor pushed aside the draft notes of his lec- 
ture, and J. Hammerton Clark knew that at last he had 
secured complete attention. 

44 Would you like me to give you a resume of the 
case as I see it? ” he asked. 

44 Yes.” 

44 Professor Adams was a brilliant, erratic genius,” 
began the detective. 44 He appears to have kept women 
strictly out of his life until the age of forty-six. On 
his forty-sixth birthday he suddenly married a young 
girl of twenty-two. She is fond of gaiety, and the balls 
of 4 Mays Week ’ keep her steadily enjoying herself. 
On the evening in question, the professor resolves to 
make a night of it in his museum ...” 

Dr. Wycherley frowned a little at this flippant way 
of stating the case, and the detective, quick to notice 
expressions, sobered his words. 

153 


THE MIND-READER 


“ . . .to work late over his zoological specimens. 
Someone who knows of this resolve borrows the pro- 
fessor’s bunch of keys on some pretext or other; un- 
locks the door of the cage where the giant sloth is kept ; 
returns the keys ; and then goes away in the full expec- 
tation that the beast will break loose and attack the 
professor.” 

44 I understood that Professor Adams made a pet of 
the animal,” commented the doctor. 44 Why should it 
attack him ? ” 

44 Probably the animal was stirred up in some way 
by the man who let it loose. However, that’s a detail. 
The main point is this : who stood to gain by the murder 
of the professor? What was the motive of the crime? 
I went first on the usual cherchez la femme. Mrs. 
Adams, a young girl who might certainly be described 
as 4 beautiful,’ would have had other admirers besides 
a professor forty-six years old. I found out that Mr. 
Arthur Lethbridge had been greatly attracted by her at 
one time. She refused him ...” 

The detective paused to give dramatic point to his 
words, then continued: 

44 1 look at Mr. Lethbridge, a dreamy, meditative 
young fellow, highly cultured, highly sensitive, a mem- 
ber of the Eugenics League, a man who has worked 
hand in hand with the professor for some years past — 
and I ask myself what on earth he could expect to gain 
by the professor’s death. A man like that could never 
bring himself to propose marriage to a woman whose 
husfiand he had murdered.” 

44 Your next suspect? ” 


154 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 


“ My next suspect was Haines, the laboratory as- 
sistant. A week before his death, Professor Adams 
had given this fellow a violent dressing-down for dis- 
turbing some museum cases. Haines had denied doing 
this. I look at Haines, a man of fifty-two with a 
blameless record for twenty years and more at the ’Var- 
sity laboratories, married, happy in his children and 
his home-life, even tempered, and I ask myself how this 
man could bring himself to murder the professor in re- 
venge for a mere slanging.” 

“ Your third suspect? ” 

66 My third was a Brazilian student named Ramon 
Zalazar, a post-graduate man specialising in zoology. 
He accompanied Professor Adams on that expedition 
he made to the interior of Brazil. Zalazar is a young 
man of a fiery, passionate, typically Latin temperament. 
I tried to connect him with Mrs. Adams, and my en- 
quiries came to nothing. I worked on the theory of 
revenge, and all my enquiries tended to show that Zala- 
zar and the professor were on excellent terms. I look 
at the young man, and I ask myself what hidden motive 
there could be for turning loose a wild beast on a 
friend.” 

“ These three men could all have been in the museum 
on the evening of the accident or murder? ” queried the 
doctor. 

“ Yes. The peculiarity of the case is that the crim- 
inal need not have been in the building at the time of 
the death. It is quite possible that he may have re- 
leased the animal hours before it attacked the professor. 
155 


THE MIND-READER 


That has made it extremely difficult for me to fix sus- 
picion on any one man on a time consideration.” 

“ But you said that the criminal is now in Neville’s 
Court ? ” 

“ Both Lethbridge and Zalazar have rooms around 
this court, and it happened that as I came across the 
quadrangle I saw Haines going to the staircase where 
Lethbridge lives — probably with some message. In 
other words, the criminal is within a stone’s throw of 
us, because my suspects have narrowed down to those 
three alone.” 

“ Always assuming murder and not accident.” 

The detective nodded assent. “ My case is prac- 
tically hopeless unless I can fix the motive. It would 
give me a new starting-point. That’s why I’ve come 
to you, sir. This case is one for a trained psychologist, 
and especially for a man of your known powers.” 

Dr. Wycherley made a gesture of deprecation. 
(i People weave fairy-tales around my powers. There 
is nothing supernatural about them. . . . However, I 
will try what I can sense or deduce. Can you show me 
the scene of the supposed crime?” 

“ Now, if you wish it. The museum and research 
rooms are closed, but I have a complete set of duplicate 
keys. Now would be the finest time to go over the 
ground, because Professor Adams was killed somewhere 
between ten and eleven o’clock at night.” 

* * * * * * * 

All traces of the tragedy had long since been 
cleared away from the sloth room, which had been 
156 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 


completed by Arthur Lethbridge according to the dead 
man’s plans, and was now thrown open to the general 
student. But the professor’s own research room, and 
the small room in which he had kept the caged animal, 
were still very much as they were on the morning of 
June 4th. Dust had settled over furniture and books, 
over microscope and bell- jars and gas-oven and rocker 
microtome, over desk and papers. In one corner lay 
the broken fragments of a large flower-bowl, with long- 
dead flowers scattered around. 

Dr. Wycherley pointed to it questioningly. 

44 Professor Adams was a man of hasty temper,” 
answered the detective. 

Another thought arose. 44 Were any of his private 
papers taken ? ” 

44 As far as we know, they were not. But it’s im- 
possible to say definitely.” 

44 Will you leave me alone in this room for, say, 
half an hour? ” 

The detective withdrew, and Dr. Wycherley, switch- 
ing off the lights and placing himself in the dead man’s 
desk-chair, gave himself up to that state of intense 
receptivity in which the radiations of outside thought 
came clearest to his inner senses. Professor Adams had 
worked in this room for years past, and some faint 
echo of his thoughts and feelings might linger — might 
still make itself evident to the consciousness of the 
mental healer as the characteristic scent of the man 
might still make itself felt to the keen nose of a hound. 

The detective, returning at the end of the half-hour, 
found Dr. Wycherley in a rigid, semi-hypnotic condi- 
157 


THE MIND-READER 


tion. After some hesitation, he decided to rouse the 
doctor. 

He touched him gently on the shoulder, and the doc- 
tor woke with a start, blinking as one who comes out of 
heavy sleep. 

“ Well, sir,” asked the detective eagerly, “ have 
you arrived at any conclusion? ” 

Dr. Wycherley remained silent for some consider- 
able time, gathering together the impressions that had 
come to him during his hypnotic doze. 

“ Here is a conclusion you are welcome to,” he an- 
swered at length. “ A man who borrows keys from 
the professor in order to loose the animal, on the off- 
chance of its attacking and killing the professor , would 
be a half-hearted amateur of a criminal.” 

J. Hammerton Clark could scarcely conceal his 
disappointment. This was a deduction he had him- 
self reached long ago; and after Dr. Wycherley’s im- 
pressive procedure, the results seemed ludicrously 
trivial. 

“ Let us go on to the scene of the death,” pursued 
the doctor, and the detective led the way to the sloth 
room, though now his faith in Dr. Wycherley’s 
“ powers ” had shrunken woefully. 

After the details of the finding of the body had 
been explained to him, the doctor again asked to be left 
alone for a half-hour. The detective withdrew with a 
slightly contemptuous smile under his dark moustache. 

When he returned, it was to find that Dr. Wycher- 
ley had already awakened from his hypnotic doze, and 
158 


ACCIDENT OR MURDER 


was now examining the specimens in the cases and in 
the open with an absorbed interest. 

“ Any further conclusion ? ” asked Clark. 

“ Yes. There was no half-hearted amateur con- 
cerned in the professor’s death,” was the somewhat cas- 
ual answer, and then, with a flash of the scientist’s en- 
thusiasm : “ Have you ever seen a more complete and 
more excellently arranged collection of any animal 
group? Full mounted specimens, skeletons, hides, 
limbs, claws, comparisons of hair, charts of geographi- 
cal distribution, internal organs, diagrams — complete 
down to the last detail. Splendid ! ” 

64 The professor was a genius for detail, no doubt,” 
returned the detective with a bored shrug of his shoul- 
ders. “ But I can’t pretend to be interested in that 
sort of thing. Those specimens have nothing to do 
with my case, and as far as I’m concerned, they don’t 
exist. It’s getting very late, and if you’ll allow me, I’ll 
be returning to my hotel soon.” 

“ I, too, must be getting to my rooms. Let us come 
away.” 

When the two men were parting company, the dis- 
appointed detective put one last perfunctory question: 

“ Then I suppose you can offer no suggestion as to 
motive, if it were a crime and not an accident? ” 

“ The motive is beyond me,” returned the doctor. 


CHAPTER XV 


BETWEEN A MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE 

D R. WYCHERLEY had spoken literal truth in 
saying that the motive was beyond him, but 
the method of the crime was vividly before him, 
and his thoughts were full of this and the deductions it 
involved. 

“ No half-hearted amateur was concerned in the 
professor’s death,” he had said to Clark, knowing that 
the man who had planned the murder had done so with 
a deliberation of purpose that was as cold as the stern 
justice of the law, and with a thoroughness that was 
scientific to the last degree. 

The murderer of Professor Adams was a scientist. 
Haines could definitely be put aside from the case. He 
could never have planned such a crime. Of the two 
remaining, Lethbridge and Zalazar, who was the man? 
The clear course was for the doctor to see each of them 
in private, and fortified by his new knowledge of the 
case — knowledge unknown to Hammerton Clark — to 
force a confession. 

Dr. Wycherley was now intensely interested in the 
case — as a psychologist. The motive of the crime puz- 
zled him, and motives, the mainsprings of human action, 
were the material of his own scientific province. He 
160 


A MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE 


had dismissed the detective in order that no bungling 
hand should make the dissection. For the time being, 
Dr. Wycherley the humanitarian was completely 
blanketed behind Dr. Wycherley the scientist. 

It was near midnight when he reached Neville’s 
Court, with its open quadrangle flooded with full moon- 
light and its cloisters dark with slumbrous shadow. A 
number of lights from open windows showed that men 
w r ere still studying or revelling. Term would close in 
a few days’ time, and then all Neville’s Court would lie 
sleeping, save for the activities of gyps and bedmakers, 
until Long Vacation brought a few of the studious- 
minded back for quiet work. 

Dr. Wycherley went round the cloisters reading the 
names painted in white at the foot of the narrow oaken 
stairways, so that he might know where Lethbridge and 
Zalazar “ kept.” Then he stepped out into the open 
quadrangle to find if either, or both, of the two men 
were still showing a light in their windows. As it hap- 
pened, lights streamed out from the living-rooms of 
both ; and Arthur Lethbridge was at a window-seat en- 
joying the coolness of the night-air as he pencilled in- 
dustriously in a notebook. 

The doctor recognised the young demonstrator from 
the brief description that the detective had given, and 
it seemed that chance was pointing to a visit to Leth- 
bridge first. If that visit drew blank, the doctor would 
then call on the Brazilian. 

It was characteristic of Dr. Wycherley that no 
question of his own personal safety entered his thoughts. 
For the purpose of discussing the crime, he was going 
161 


THE MIND-READER 


to call on two men, one of whom had committed a par- 
ticularly cold-blooded murder; yet the doctor took no 
precaution for his own safeguard. He simply went up- 
stairs to the rooms of the first man, and knocked at the 
outer oak. 

Lethbridge came to the door — a young man of 
twenty-eight, clean-cut, muscular, upright, with curious 
dreamy eyes that seemed to look beyond one into the 
future. 

44 What is it? ” he asked quietly. 

44 I must apologise for disturbing you at this late 
hour. My name is Wycherley. I am temporarily oc- 
cupying rooms in this court. I happen to be needing 
a quotation from Hartwell and Stevens’ 4 Mammalia,’ 
and I judged that you would probably have a copy.” 

44 Certainly, Doctor. I know you by reputation, of 
course. Please come in.” 

Lethbridge led the way to his sitting-room, indicated 
a chair, and handed to the doctor the two bulky vol- 
umes of the work in question, together with a pad of 
scribbling-paper. 

There was a silence for some little while as Dr. 
Wycherley turned to the chapter on the sloth family, 
and pencilled some notes. 

Then he remarked as he closed the volume : 44 I was 
at the museum to-day viewing some of the specimens. 
Allow me to congratulate you on the splendid display 
in the new sloth room. I understand it has been laid 
out by yourself.” 

44 No credit is due to me,” returned the young 
demonstrator. 44 1 simply followed out the late profes- 
162 


A MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE 


sor’s plans. His thoroughness in such matters 
amounted to genius.” 

“ I gather that his genius had its counterweight in 
a highly erratic temperament.” 

“ He had his fits of anger.” 

“ Did it ever strike you that there was more in 
such outbursts than mere irritability ? ” 

Lethbridge was sitting on the broad window-seat, 
his back against a cushion at one end, his feet up at the 
other, re-filling his pipe. He put in a few last threads 
of the light gold flake with meticulous care, and replied : 
46 One made allowances, and avoided him on his irritable 
days.” 

44 Did it ever strike you that the professor was on 
the verge of insanity? ” pursued the doctor, and his 
keen eyes were fixed searchingly on the profile of the 
young man silhouetted at the window-seat. 

Lethbridge put down his feet and turned squarely 
towards his questioner. 44 What makes you think 
that? ” 

44 1 know it. I was alone in his room for half-an- 
hour to-day, and the thoughts of the dead man were 
still surging and echoing in it. A tangled maze of 
thoughts coloured with what I recognise as dangerous 
abnormality.” 

44 Professor Adams is dead,” responded the young 
man with slow and meaning emphasis. 44 1 was his 
friend and his wife’s friend. The whole subject is a 
painful one to me. Need we discuss it further? ” 

44 As his friend and his wife’s friend,” answered the 

163 


THE MIND-READER 


doctor firmly, 44 you owe it to him to help in the bring- 
ing to light of his murderer.” 

44 The death was pure accident ! ” 

44 You are sure? ” 

44 Everyone knows it except these pig-headed police- 
men. Can you imagine a would-be murderer borrow- 
ing keys from the professor in order to turn loose the 
animal, on the mere chance of the animal killing him? 
Suppose that had not happened — that the sloth had 
merely attacked the professor without killing him? 
Why, the man who let the animal loose would be in- 
stantly known ! ” 

44 Precisely. Most unscientific.” 

44 That, to my mind, clinches the matter. It was 
one of those accidents that no one can foresee.” 

44 To my mind also it would clinch the matter, were 
it not that I know something further — something un- 
known to the police, something known only to two men, 
myself and the man who planned the crime.” 

44 What? ” 

44 That the professor was never attacked by the ani- 
mal at all.” 

44 But the claw-marks on the neck ! ” 

44 The professor was strangled by a pair of speci- 
men sloth-claws in the hands of the criminal. He was 
no half-hearted bungler. He made deadly sure of his 
work. He killed the professor first, and released the 
animal later.” 

44 God ! What cold-blooded work ! . . . But how 
could you guess this ? ” 

44 1 was alone in the sloth room for a further half- 

164 


A MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE 


hour, in a self-induced hypnosis. In that state of mind 
I am very often able to sense what is beyond the range 
of the ordinary sense-organs. I had the most vivid 
impression — not a vision in the ordinary meaning of 
the term, but an impression on the psychic plane — that 
a man had hidden, close to where I was sitting, with an 
absolutely fixed determination to kill the professor with 
his own hands. Not a surge of revengeful anger; not 
a blaze of jealous passion; but a cold determination 
like the stern justice of the law. That is the nearest 
description I can give you to the impression stamped 
on my mind.” 

Lethbridge was leaning forward now in keen eager- 
ness to hear every word of the doctor’s. 44 But in this 
vision, or whatever you call it, did you see the murder 
committed? ” 

44 No.” 

44 Then how did you come to that conclusion ? * 

44 That was deduction. When I woke from the hyp- 
notic state, I thought of the claw-marks on Professor 
Adams’ neck, and at the same moment my eye caught 
a pair of specimen claws in the museum case, carefully 
arranged, neatly labelled. The label stated that they 
came from a full-grown animal of the same species as 
the giant sloth. In other words, that pair of specimen 
claws would make marks on the neck of the professor 
identical with the claw-marks of the live sloth. It 
would account for the tears in the professor’s clothing, 
and for the marks on the floor around.” 

44 But this is all deduction — theory ! ” 

165 


THE MIND-READER 


“ No. I took out the claws from the museum case, 
and examined them with a pocket glass. I found that 
they had been carefully cleaned. Yet not so minutely 
that every trace of human epidermis had been wiped 
away.” 

Lethbridge rose and began to pace the room. 

“ Leave me to think this over,” he said presently. 
“ What you say has given me a great shock. Is there 
nothing more I can do for you? ” 

“ Thank you, I have the material I want,” answered 
Dr. Wycherley, taking up the notes he had previously 
made, and preparing to leave. “ Don’t trouble to come 
to the outer door. I know my way.” 

“ Good night, then.” 

“ Good night.” 

Dr. Wycherley closed the door of the sitting-room 
behind him and opened the outer oak. But he did not 
step out into the stairway. He closed the oak again 
with a firm bang of the spring-lock, and waited. 

After the expiry of sixty seconds, the doctor opened 
the sitting-room door quickly and walked in. 

“ I came back for a favourite pencil I left . . . ” 
were the words on his lips, but there was no need for 
verbal excuse. 

Arthur Lethbridge was lying prone on the floor in 
a dead faint. By sheer will-power he had held himself 
together so long as the doctor was in the room, but 
when the latter had apparently passed beyond the outer 
oak, the overwrought heart had had its way. 

******* 


166 


A MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE 


“ Why are you here again? ” was the question from 
the young demonstrator when he awoke to conscious- 
ness to find himself on a couch with Dr. Wycherley hold- 
ing a moistened handkerchief to his forehead. 

“ I came back to ask why you killed your friend.” 

“ I . . . killed . . . the professor ! ” The protest 
came weakly. 

“ Yes. And the motive is beyond me. It was not 
anger; it was not jealousy; it was not revenge. Why 
did you do it ? ” 

“ I didn’t!” 

“ Remember, the facts are known only to you and 
to myself. The police know nothing as yet of what I 
said to you to-night. Who shall tell them — you or I? ” 

“ You’re trying to torture a confession out of me ! 99 

“ You would not confess to what you had not done,” 
replied the doctor firmly. 

Lethbridge sat up suddenly. “ Neither you nor I 
shall tell the police,” he answered. “ If nobody else 
knows, the death had far better rest at accident.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ Because it was done for her sake.” 

“ Mrs. Adams? ” 

“ Yes, for her sake alone. I had nothing to gain 
by it. You surely don’t think me capable of killing a 
friend in order to marry his widow ? 99 

“ No, I don’t think that. But what was exactly 
your motive ? 99 

“ With all your powers of intuition, you seem singu- 
larly dense.” 


167 


THE MIND-READER 


“ I am still a student of the human mind — only a 
student,” answered the doctor quietly. 

“ You guessed the two halves of the story. You 
had only to place them together to make the complete 
picture.” Lethbridge rose, a little unsteadily, and went 
to his favourite seat by the window-sill, leaning back 
amongst the cushions. 

“ Professor Adams,” he continued, “ was on the 
verge of insanity. I had known it for a long time past, 
but it was only recently that his condition of mind be- 
came a menace to others. He decided very hastily to 
marry, and Blanche — Mrs. Adams — a young girl know- 
ing little of the world, agreed to marry him almost with- 
out an engagement. I implored the professor not to 
marry. I pointed out the dangers. I urged his duty 
to society in general. I urged the eugenic aspect of 
such a marriage. He refused to listen to any argument 
of mine. He married Blanche, and they went away 
for their honeymoon. 

“ When they returned, his outbursts of temper be- 
came more frequent and more violent. You, Doctor, 
will know well that a man in his condition might be at 
one and the same time a loving husband and a constant 
menace. I am not only thinking of the children of such 
a marriage; I am thinking also of the way in which a 
man with homicidal mania is liable to attack those near- 
est and dearest to him.” 

“ Homicidal mania — you were sure of that? ” 

Lethbridge threw off his coat and turned up the 
sleeve of his left arm. “ Feel here,” he said to Dr. 
Wycherley. 


168 


A MAN AND HIS CONSCIENCE 


“ A badly-set fracture.” 

“ I didn’t take it to a doctor. I wanted to keep the 
affair quiet. I set the arm myself as best I could.” 

“ The professor attacked you? ” 

“ With an iron bar. Quite suddenly and unexpect- 
edly, without the shadow of a cause. After that I had 
to watch him very warily when we were alone together.” 

“ You could have had him examined by a doctor, 
and if necessary, put under restraint.” 

“ Yes, and let Blanche be legally chained for life 
to a madman in an asylum! As the out-of-date laws 
of this country now stand, that is what would have hap- 
pened. No divorce possible. A young girl chained to 
a madman until his death releases her. What a mock- 
ery of human liberty! ... I thought over the matter 
in every aspect, and I could see only one way out for 
Blanche. Then I did — what I did. I made very care- 
ful arrangements to suggest an accident, and but for 
your guesses or intuitions or whatever they may be, an 
accident it would have remained. Now — !” Leth- 
bridge shrugged his shoulders. 

Dr. Wycherley remained silent, thinking deeply 
over the extraordinary motive laid bare in the young 
man’s recital. He did not doubt its essential truth, for 
every word dovetailed in with what he already knew. 

“ Well? ” asked Lethbridge at length. “ What do 
you propose to do? ” 

Dr. Wycherley rose and went to the desk where 
he had copied the notes from the volume of Hartwell 
and Stevens. 

“ I came back for a favourite pencil I had left be- 

169 


THE MIND-READER 


hind. Ah, here it is. . . . As for the rest ” — his hand 
was on the door-handle — “ as for the rest, I am going 
to leave it between you and your conscience.” 

“ Good night, then,” said Lethbridge from his win- 
dow-seat, tonelessly. 

“ Good night,” answered the doctor. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A WANDERER RETURNED 

I T was following on the strange case of Professor 
Creighton Adams, in early July, that Dr. Wycher- 
ley found himself at Henley Regatta. The life of 
the ’Varsity had made a distinct appeal to him through 
its pulsing youth and unshattered enthusiasms, and he 
wished to see more of it at the great annual river festi- 
val. He therefore accepted readily an invitation for 
Henley Week extended to him by Professor Devene, one 
of the Trinity dons, and that had led to a chance in- 
troduction to Major Eitzalan, who rented a river bun- 
galow at Henley for the season. 

The major, on hearing of Dr. Wycherley’s reputa- 
tion as a mind-reader, had asked for his help on a very 
delicate matter, and the doctor, much interested in the 
curious story that had been put before him, had con- 
sented to do what might lie in his power. 

The two of them, with Mrs. Eitzalan, a very capable, 
carefully-beautiful woman of thirty, were seated on the 
Henley lawns, gay with pinks and blues of frocks and 
blazers, sunshades and college ribbons, joyously sur- 
gent with the spirit of youth, rippling with young life. 
In a corner of the lawns sat old Lord Dallas — a blind 
man drinking in the sounds of joyous youth, and in 
171 


THE MIND-READER 


them remembering his own youth when he too threw 
soul into the straining oar and drank deep of the cup 
of victory. There was a race in progress, and as the 
bands of undergraduates ran by the towpath shouting 
and cheering on their college crews, a flush came into 
the old man’s face as if he felt his hands once again 
upon the oar. 

By his side sat a tall, dark, heavily-framed man of 
forty-five — a man with a hard straight eye and a mouth 
that told of strength in reserve. A silent, guarded man 
who spoke little, and then in short, abrupt sentences. 
A reserved, secretive man. He had a habit of gripping 
the sides of his chair with both hands as though keeping 
tight grip of his secret thoughts. 

After twenty years of wanderings he had come 
back to claim his place as the son and heir of Lord Dal- 
las, now blind and feeble and with few years of life left 
to him. That was the claim of the stranger. 

“ It was over twenty years ago that Morton Lang- 
dale quarrelled with his father and flung out of the 
house,” explained Major Fitzalan in amplification of 
the previous conversation wherein he had asked for 
Dr. Wycherley’s help. “ Nothing was heard of him 
directly ; he never wrote to his relatives. Indirectly we 
heard that he was fighting with the United States army 
in the Philippines. Then he disappeared again out of 
our knowledge. That Philippines episode may be im- 
portant if it comes to a lawsuit, because we might be 
able to hunt out someone who knew the real Morton 
Langdale there.” 

His wife shook her head in contradiction. “ We 

172 


A WANDERER RETURNED 


should stand a very poor chance in a lawsuit. That 
I’m quite sure of. If my uncle continues to acknowl- 
edge him as his son, it will be taken as overwhelming 
proof. . . . Isn’t it a pathetic sight? ” she went on in- 
dignantly. 44 There’s my uncle, blind and helpless, and 
there’s that mercenary scoundrel using his blindness and 
his helplessness to bolster up this horrible imposture! 
If he could only get his deserts ! ” 

44 He’s clever — devilishly clever,” put in the major. 
44 Yes, he’d squirm out of any tight corner. That’s 
why we ask for your help, Doctor,” proceeded Mrs. 
Fitzalan with strained anxiety in her face. 44 Mary 
Devene told us about the marvellous power you have 

of getting at the back of people’s minds, and so ” 

Dr. Wycherley interrupted with a gesture of depre- 
cation. 44 Please don’t exaggerate my powers,” he 
said. 44 1 am no wonder-worker — merely a student of 
the human mind. Still a student.” 

But Mrs. Fitzalan would allow no self-deprecation 
on the part of the doctor to stand in her way. She 
was a woman of strong will, as her husband had long 
since learnt and submitted to. She proceeded to detail 
what she had heard from Mary Devene, and concluded 
by bringing it round to the present case. 44 If you 
could manage that kind of thing, Doctor, surely you 
could find some way of getting at my uncle’s mind and 
showing him what a horrible imposture is being prac- 
tised? You see, anything we have urged has been dis- 
counted by our self-interest. That’s the point that’s 
driving me to desperation. When we say this man’s an 
impostor — another 4 Roger Tichborne ’ — the answer 
173 


THE MIND-READER 


comes at once, Major Fitzalan is next heir to the estate 
and therefore prejudiced. No one will believe that we 
can act from anything but selfish motives.” 

44 To have our name pass into the hands of a man 
like that — to see Greeve Hall lorded over by a scoundrel 
from God knows where! That’s what sticks in my 
throat! ” In Major Fitzalan’s voice was sincerity un- 
mistakable; there could be no doubt how deeply he felt 
the wrong that was being done not only to himself but 
also to his family. 

Yet Dr. Wycherley answered with the caution of 
the scientist : 44 All this rests on the supposition that we 
are dealing with an impostor. So far I have heard 
only your side of the case, and I cannot promise to act 
until I have fully assured myself ” 

44 1 can give you a dozen proofs, fifty proofs ! ” in- 
terrupted Mrs. Fitzalan. 44 From the first moment I 
set eyes on him I felt my suspicions. And then the 
little points that tell a woman so much. His secretive- 
ness ; his constant air of being on guard. Oh, the man 
has been splendidly coached in his part, and he’s devil- 
ishly clever, but if my uncle were not blind and a little 
feeble in mind, he would have seen through him weeks 
ago. But the crowning proof is this.” She glanced 
around to make sure that there were no eavesdroppers, 
but indeed no one was taking any notice of them. Then 
she drew out from her satchel-bag a cheap, common 
sheet of letter-paper written on in an ill-formed, unedu- 
cated hand, and passed it to Dr. Wycherley. 

The psychologist examined it very closely after he 

174 


A WANDERER RETURNED 


had read the words, and asked : “ How did this come 
into your hands ? ” 

Major Fitzalan flushed perceptibly as he answered: 
“ We — er — intercepted the letter. I know it sounds a 
deuced unsporting thing to do, but when you’re dealing 
with a ” 

His wife took up his hesitating words in her own 
decisive fashion : “ One has to meet a scoundrel on his 
own grounds. I’ve not the slightest compunction in the 
matter. I felt that letter held the key to the situation, 
and I was amply justified in getting hold of it. You 
see what the letter amounts to, Doctor — a veiled threat 
to extort money from him. No name; no address. 
Now, no man can be blackmailed without good cause.” 

Dr. Wycherley did not answer this. His gaze was 
fixed on old Lord Dallas in the far corner of the lawns. 
Another race was in progress, and the wild shouting 
and cheering on the towpath told that it was a neck- 
and-neck struggle between Trinity Hall, Lord Dallas’ 
own college, and Leander. In his excitement the old 
man had risen from his chair as though his sightless eyes 
could see over the heads of the crowd, and quite sud- 
denly he fell back clutching at his chair. The excite- 
ment had caught at his heart. 

Dr. Wycherley moved forward swiftly to his aid. 
Morton Langdale (or the man who had taken that 
name) had laid his father on the grass before the doc- 
tor had reached the scene, and was loosening his collar. 
In one glance he took in Dr. Wycherley and had him 
mentally classified. 

“ Thanks,” said Langdale abruptly, before a word 

175 


THE MIND-READER 


had been spoken. “ You’re wanted, Doctor. Give or- 
ders, and I’ll see them carried out.” 

******* 

Greeve Hall lies a few miles back from the river at 
Henley, deep bedded in the woods that clothe the hills 
on the Berkshire side. From the observatory tower — 
which Lord Dallas had used for his hobby of astronomy 
— you look out over thicket and park-land sweeping 
down in dark green stateliness to the lush meadows 
where the Thames winds in and out as a band of splen- 
did silver. A house and land breathing of old tradi- 
tions, high ideals, the shaping of centuries. They fitted 
well with the fine-strung motto of the Langdale family, 
“ I hold no shame.” 

Lord Dallas had been taken back at once to Greeve 
Hall, and the mental healer had ordered him complete 
rest for several days at least. A fainting attack which 
would have been of trifling moment for a young man 
might have serious consequences for an old man of 
seventy. With the professional permission of the fam- 
ily doctor, the mental healer was remaining at Greeve 
Hall for a few days until his patient should be entirely 
restored. He found a willing collaborator in Miss 
Seton, a distant relation of the family who for many 
years past had stayed at Greeve Hall to keep the cares 
of his position away from the shoulders of Lord Dallas. 
She was devoted to him. A sweet, gentle woman, scarce- 
ly marked by the passage of forty years — one of those 
Englishwomen whose lives are given to good works, 
which in return give them perennial youth. An Eng- 
176 


A WANDERER RETURNED 


lishwoman of the countryside, subtly suggestive of lav- 
ender and rosemary and sweet-william and the other old- 
world flowers that grow by the south wall in quiet leisure 
and very pleasant fragrance. 

During his brief stay Dr. Wycherley was closely 
observing Morton Langdale. It roused his professional 
interest to a high pitch. The man had a mind encased 
as it were in steel. Though with most men and women 
the mental healer could read deep into their thoughts 
and emotions, in the case of this man he was strangely 
baffled. It was as though Langdale kept tight grip of 
his thoughts behind the barrier of his will. 

An unusual case, and therefore of peculiar interest 
to Dr. Wycherley. He had the zest of the collector for 
the rare specimen. He could not rest content until he 
had it pinned out in his collection, properly classified 
and labelled. And on his part Langdale seemed to be 
studying the doctor guardedly. 

In the smoking-room one evening there had been 
long silences between them while Langdale sat with his 
hands tight gripping the sides of his chair, and Dr. 
Wycherley rolled cigarette after cigarette in his won- 
derfully deft left-handed fashion. 

Langdale had broken one of the long, heavy silences 
with the strange, disconnected remark: 

“ What is the supreme test of courage ? 99 

Dr. Wycherley considered for some moments before 
replying. “ It depends on the individual temperament. 
To a few, to sacrifice life. To more, to sacrifice love. 
To most, to sacrifice the choice of life — to take the liv- 
ing death with a smiling face and bear with it uncom- 
177 


THE MIND-READER 


plainingly to the end. Think of the men and women 
who suffer in silence, showing a brave cheerfulness to 
the world; think of the X-ray martyrs, of Father Da- 
mien ...” 

“ Yes.” There was abrupt agreement in the tone. 
But Langdale did not add to his monosyllable, and so 
the doctor continued after a pause: 

“ One rarely hears of the world’s real heroes. They 
make no headlines for the newspapers. Their living 
death makes no more stir than a bubble in the stormy 
Atlantic. Outside their small circle no one knows of 
them; even within their circle few suspect the sacrifice 
that has been made.” 

“ Then what good do they do ? ” 

The leading point of these questions was not appar- 
ent. But Dr. Wycherley wished keenly to get behind 
the reserve of this silent, secretive man, and he was glad 
to keep the apparently purposeless conversation pro- 
ceeding. He replied : “ I am no pessimist. I do not 
believe theirs is waste effort. There is a mental aura 
that radiates out from a man that makes for good or 
evil in others. A silent, unseen urge. There is no 
name for it; no way of detecting or measuring or an- 
alysing it. Yet it is one of the great realities. . . . Do 
you agree with me? ” 

“ Possibly,” was the abrupt answer, and Langdale 
relapsed into silence again. Presently he fingered his 
watch, suppressed a yawn, and remarked: “I think I 
shall be getting off to bed. Please ring for anything 
you want. . . . Good-night.” 

When he had left, Dr. Wycherley rolled himself a 

178 


A WANDERER RETURNED 


double-length cigarette, lit it and held it at arm’s length, 
and proceeded to concentrate his gaze upon it. Ac- 
cording to his custom when puzzled by a case of obser- 
vation, he wished to throw himself into a light hypnoidal 
sleep so as to recover all of the impressions that Lang- 
dale’s presence had radiated into his sub-conscious mind. 

The cigarette burnt slowly through, and when the 
burning end scorched the doctor’s finger-tips he awoke 
with a start. Then he quickly left the smoking-room 
and mounted up to the high tower where Lord Dallas 
carried out his astronomical hobby. The room was 
now unoccupied. Dr. Wycherley took up a small hand 
telescope and began methodically to sweep the sur- 
rounding woods and park-lands, dark with the night, 
from the crest of Gleydon Rise down to the lush 
meadows that border the silver Thames. In his system- 
atic, scientific fashion he took strip after strip of the 
territory and searched every star-lit glade for the ob- 
ject he had in mind. 

In his light hypnotic sleep there had come to the 
doctor a strong impression that Langdale was being 
menaced that evening. Doubtless it would be something 
in connection with the anonymous letter which Mrs. 
Fitzalan had shown him. And so, though Dr. Wycher- 
ley greatly disliked the idea of shadowing any man, he 
felt that here was a case where ordinary feelings must 
be put aside. The happiness of too many people was 
involved to allow over-fine scruples to stand in the way 
of his duty to others. 

It was a long while before he found the object of 
his search — a man standing under the shadow of a 
179 


THE MIND-READER 


broad oak-tree, waiting on some appointment. Dr. 
Wycherley fixed his telescope on a support of cushions 
and sat down to keep watch. The man was a rough, 
stocky, strongly muscular figure — probably a sailor or 
a navvy of some kind. He moved about impatiently 
under the tree as though he were being kept waiting. 

And presently the doctor saw the figure of Morton 
Langdale moving quietly and unhurriedly down the 
park-land, under the shadows of the trees and hedges, 
going to keep appointment. He was unhurried in his 
movements, as if he were designedly holding his man 
waiting, but yet he kept closely to the shadows as though 
secrecy were a vital factor. 

When the two men came face to face under the 
shadow of the oak-tree there was very evident recrimi- 
nation from the sailor. It was a strangely silent quarrel 
that Dr. Wycherley was witnessing through his tele- 
scope. No sound could come to him from that distance, 
and he bent every faculty of mind to the task of trying 
to read what they were saying from the gestures and 
attitudes. 

Words ran high on the part of the sailorman, but 
Langdale was at first cool and collected. He was try- 
ing to beat down the other man by force of will. There 
was a tense strain of attitude that told of the tense grip 
of mind. And presently the strain of holding himself 
in against the jibes or threats passed the breaking-point, 
and he whipped forward on the sailor with clenched fists 
and blazing eyes. For a moment the man slunk back, 
and then there came from him some retort that caused 
Langdale to drop his fists and droop his shoulders in 
180 


A WANDERER RETURNED 


defeat. He took out his pocket-book and began to 
count out bank-notes. Dr. Wycherley could see the 
sailorman eagerly clutching his booty and crinkling the 
notes one by one to satisfy himself of their genuineness. 

Langdale stood moodily under the oak-tree long 
after the man had left with his plunder. His tall frame 
drooped — in his attitude was the bitter realisation of 
moral cowardice. Slowly he began to retrace his way 
up the park-lands, while Dr. Wycherley watched him 
concentratedly through his telescope. 

44 What have you seen, Doctor? ” asked a low, gentle 
voice at his elbow, and he turned to find beside him Miss 
Dorothy Seton, with a lace shawl thrown around her 
head against the night air. In her voice there was piti- 
ful anxiety. 44 What is happening to him? ” 

44 To ? ” 

44 To Morton — to Mr. Langdale. I want to know 
what it all means, even more than you do ! Oh, tell me, 
what is threatening him, what does all this mystery 
mean ? ” 

Dr. Wycherley looked back at her with understand- 
ing and deep sympathy. 44 1 see. You believe in him.” 

A flush came into her face, and there was a note of 
pride in her voice as she answered : 44 1 know! ” 

44 You knew Mr. Langdale before he went away, 
twenty years ago? . . . Ah, I see that you knew him 
well. More than well. There was understanding be- 
tween you ? ” 

44 He was . . . very dear to me.” Her face was 
turned away into deep shadow. She paused, but the 
181 


THE MIND-READER 


sympathy that had lain in Dr. Wycherley’s voice drove 
her to fuller confidence. 44 I thought at the time that 
he cared for me, too. It was just such a night as this 
when we sat together under the big cedar-tree in the 
garden at the Henley Week ball. How grave it looks, 
the old cedar-tree — how heavy with memories ! The 
starlight touched softly on the old branches, as if it 
were smoothing away the wrinkles of age. The damask 
roses by the windows of the ballroom were languorous 
with scent. The orchestra was playing 4 Queen of My: 
Heart.’ It was new then — more than twenty years 
ago. Perhaps to-day it would sound tawdry, but then 
. . . And there was a light in his eyes that ... Oh, 
why am I telling you all this ? ” 

44 Because you have my very deep sympathy. Be- 
cause I would help you in any way possible to me. . . . 
And you have been waiting for him these twenty 
years ? ” 

44 Yes.” Her answer was barely audible. 44 So that 
when he came back I knew it was he. How could I be 
mistaken? And yet he came back cold and distant, 
and I don’t understand. He is so changed — so reserved 
and secretive. There is some mystery about him, and 
I don’t understand it. Tell me what it is ! Are you 
his friend?” 

It was difficult for Dr. Wycherley to answer this. 
44 1 am an observer,” he said slowly, 44 a student of 
men and women. The mystery around Mr. Langdale 
has intrigued me. But rest assured of this, that so far 
as it lies within my power to serve you I will do so. 

182 


A WANDERER RETURNED 


Now tell me this : what you have just confided to me, 
has it passed to anyone else ? ” 

44 To no one else. There is something about you* 
Doctor, that draws one’s confidences. Something mag- 
netic, compelling. You are practically a stranger to 
me, and yet I felt you would understand and sym- 
pathise. ...” 

44 It is a gift I value very greatly. Yes, you were 
right to tell me this. It will help more than you can 
possibly guess. I see a way, a method of making 
sure ! ” The doctor’s eye was lighting with the enthusi- 
asm of the scientist. 44 A beautiful method ! Of course 
the technique of psycho-analysis is not new, yet the ap- 
plication would be novel in the extreme. . . . But these 
details would scarcely interest you. You will excuse 
the scientific temperament, will you not? I was forget- 
ting to answer your question. You asked what is hap- 
pening to Mr. Langdale, and I am at liberty to tell you 
this : he is being blackmailed. As to the cause, I am 
now investigating.” 

44 But he would never have done anything criminal ! 
I know him too well. He is the soul of honour. The 
Langdales are a race with fine traditions and splendid 
ideals, and Morton is a true Langdale. You know our 
motto, 4 1 hold no shame.’ ” 

44 You said that the orchestra was playing 4 Queen 
of My Heart ’ on that night of the ball, twenty years 
ago ? ” 

44 Yes, but why? How could that possibly help in 
unravelling the mystery ? ” she answered in open sur- 
prise. 


183 


THE MIND-READER 


Dr. Wycherley did not answer this directly. 
66 Please mention to no one whatever that we have been 
talking about Mr. Langdale. This is vital,” was all he 
said. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE SUPREME TEST OF COURAGE 

M AJOR FITZALAN’S river bungalow, “ Lazy- 
land,” lay within easy distance of Greeve Hall. 
It was a pretty little toy house with its riot 
of clambering roses and wistaria and its dainty summer 
rooms panelled in white wood and carpeted with cool 
green matting. Amongst the Liberty furniture there 
was one chair in curious contrast to the rest — a stiff 
plush-covered armchair with the arm-rests in polished 
nickel like a dentist’s chair. 

Dr. Wycherley had had it brought from London for 
a special and important purpose. Out of sight, cov- 
ered electric wires ran under the matting from the chair 
to partition wall in white wood and through into a small 
bedroom behind. And in this small room he had in- 
stalled — of course with the Fitzalans’ permission — an 
elaborate piece of scientific apparatus connected with 
the two electric wires that ran to the plush-covered arm- 
chair. 

The most striking feature of the apparatus was a 
revolving “ drum ” wrapped round with soot-blackened 
paper. Against this rested a very light metal pointer 
connected electrically with the wires and a battery of 
Bunsen cells. To the physiologist such a piece of ap- 
185 


THE MIND-READER 


paratus is very familiar — he uses it in scores of experi- 
ments where blood pressure curves or nerve current 
curves have to be registered. 

Major Fitzalan had regarded it with curiosity and 
a little soldierly contempt for whatever he did not thor- 
oughly understand. Dr. Wycherley was explaining as 
he fitted up the connections and made his preliminary 
tests : 

“ To-night we should be able to get conclusive, in- 
controvertible evidence on Morton Langdale — or the 
man who claims his name. He has accepted your wife’s 
invitation to dinner and the informal concert after- 
wards, and she will manoeuvre him into that plush-cov- 
ered armchair. When he places his two hands on the 
nickel arm-rests, according to his usual habit, that com- 
pletes the electric circuit, and we then have a current 
passing through his body and connected with this metal 
pointer by relay.” 

“ Surely he would feel the current ? ” suggested the 
major doubtfully. 

“ No, it is too weak. Sit in the chair and try for 
yourself.” 

The host did so, and admitted that there was noth- 
ing particular to be felt. “ But what happens then? ” 
he enquired. 

“ The concert goes through according to the pro- 
gramme I have arranged with your wife.” 

“ And then ? ” 

Dr. Wycherley finished with an adjustment of the 
soot-blackened cylinder. “ A man can hide his feelings 
and emotions so that not one muscle quivers — so that 
186 


SUPREME TEST OF COURAGE 


not the faintest sign appears in face or hands or body- 
movement — but there is one thing he cannot control. 
His nerve currents. Any strong emotion in the mind 
sets up nerve currents, internal electric currents. Your 
strongly controlled, intensely reserved man may show 
no faintest outward sign of his feelings, but nevertheless 
he will reveal himself infallibly through this instrument. 
There is no evading it; no deceiving it.” 

“ It seems deuced ingenious,” said the major. 

Dr. Wycherley smiled quizzically. “ Meaning that 
in your opinion it is extremely foolish and unprac- 
tical ? ” 

The major fumbled with a conventional denial. 

“ Yet,” proceeded the doctor, “ it is a method of 
technique used to-day by the foremost psychologists of 
the world. On this smoke-blackened drum we shall read 
to-night the workings that will tell us of Langdale’s in- 
most thoughts.” 

That evening, when the concert was in full swing, 
with the guests gaily chatting between the songs and 
the light music when Morton Langdale, still cold and 
reserved, sat in the plush-covered armchair and auto- 
matically laid his two hands on the metal rests ; Dr. Wy- 
cherley excused himself and retired to his improvised 
laboratory behind the partition wall. 

The current was in circuit, as his galvanometer 
showed ; it was passing through Langdale’s body via the 
two arms. The doctor set the drum slowly revolving 
by clockwork with the metal pointer lightly pressing 
against it and scratching a thin line through the smoky 
coating. 


187 


THE MIND-READER 


At the piano Mrs. Fitzalan, by pre-arrangement, 
had started a popular waltz-air from the musical com- 
edy of the day. The line of the pointer quivered slight- 
ly, then ran on evenly. Presently came a war-song — 
one of the Kipling poems set to music — sung by Hubert 
Llewellyn, a prominent tenor of the day, who happened 
to be staying with the Fitzalans for a week-end. And 
with that there formed on the recording drum a ragged 
line that mutely testified to the emotions it was arousing 
behind the cold, passionless face of Morton Langdale. 

And when the applause had subsided at the finish 
of the song, Mrs. Fitzalan laid her hands on the broad, 
mellow chords that form the introduction to the song 
from the opera of “ Dorothy ” that had swept over all 
England twenty years before with its message of “ Why 
should we wait for to-morrow? You’re queen of my 
heart to-night ! 99 

As Dr. Wycherley watched eagerly the soot-black- 
ened cylinder slowly revolving against the metal pointer, 
there came a sudden leap in the curve and a quivering 
ragged line that placed the inscrutable Morton Lang- 
dale beyond all doubt as the son of Lord Dallas and 
the afore-time lover of Dorothy Seton. 

* * * * * * * 

They were walking home together through the star- 
lit parklands to Greeve Hall — Dr. Wycherley and 
Langdale. 

Said the doctor suddenly: “ I owe you a very sin- 
cere apology.” 

“ For ? ” 


188 


SUPREME TEST OF COURAGE 


“ For doubting your identity.” 

“ Mrs. Fitzalan had her hopes, I know,” answered 
Langdale evenly. “ I have been very much afraid she 
would get at my father over the matter and worry him. 
He is old, and I want to keep anxiety away from him.” 

“ Without your knowing it, you have to-night been 
put to the test.” 

For the first time Langdale showed open surprise. 
“ How?” 

“ The details of the method are unimportant. The 
vital point is that you have proved yourself. And I 
have a message for you: she has been waiting for you 
these twenty years — very patiently and very steadfastly. 
Ever since that night at the ball . . . sitting out by the 
big cedar tree in the star-light . . . while the orchestra 
played to you Queen of My Heart.’ ...” The doc- 
tor paused and turned round, looking at his companion 
full in the eyes with his deep, searching gaze. 

“ My God ! ” Langdale gripped tight on his stick 
and was silent for a long while. 

Then he burst out, as though the barriers of his self- 
repression had broken down and the waters of his soul 
must needs pour out through the shattered gates : “ I 
come back a coward — a proved coward ! I had my su- 
preme test, and I failed! It happened in this way: I 
was in the war in the Philippines, fighting in the United 
States army. I carried out some risky bits of work, 
and at the time I thought that was courage. I didn’t 
know the elementary meaning of the word. That kind 
of thing is child’s play.” He laughed bitterly at him- 
self. 


189 


THE MIND-READER 


“ Then after the war I fell in love with a very beau- 
tiful young Spanish girl — or rather, half Spanish, half 
Filipino. I was carried out of myself and I married 
her. My ardour cooled down ; hers continued. I went 
away on a pearling expedition, and when I came back 
to her the most ghastly discovery possible met my eyes.” 

He paused in horror of his recollection. 

“ She had developed leprosy — it had just begun. 
It is rare out there, but it exists. They quarantined us 
on San Felipe island — she and myself, because I was her 
husband, and suspect. In six months’ time the disease 
had gained strong hold of her, but I was untouched. 
Then came my supreme test. The doctors told me I 
was free of suspicion and could go. Manuela implored 
me to stay by her — implored me on her knees. But I 
couldn’t bear with the sights of that terrible island, 
and the thought of staying by her while she slowly con- 
sumed away was more than I could stand.” In bitter 
self-abasement he added : “ I gave up — quitted — 
branded myself a coward.” 

Dr. Wycherley was deeply touched at this confes- 
sion. He asked gently : “ And that is why you are be- 
ing blackmailed? ” 

“ You know that? . . .No, the man’s story is half 
truth, half lie, and that is where its devilishness comes 
in. His story is that I was not allowed to go, but that 
I escaped from San Felipe. It’s a lie. But to think 
of having such a lie spread around amongst people 
eager to believe anything to a man’s discredit! And 
especially to have such a lie reach my father’s ears ! 
The shock would kill him. So I gave in and paid hush- 
190 


SUPREME TEST OF COURAGE 


money. While my father lives I shall go on paying 
hush-money. After that ...” He paused signifi- 
cantly, and his hand tightened on his stick. 

“ Your wife? ” questioned Dr. Wycherley. 

“ She is dead now. Dead these two years. For 
myself, I have been examined by doctors again and 
again, and they tell me there is not the remotest suspi- 
cion. . . .Now you will begin to realise that if I failed 
at the test, I have paid for it over and over again in 
remorse. As to Miss Seton, how could I go to her with 
this stain on my life, without telling her? ” 

66 Then tell her,” answered Dr. Wycherley firmly. 
“ For twenty years she has been waiting. It is her 
right to know, and knowing, to have choice. For you 
it is a second test of courage, and if you rise to it you 
will efface your other failure. . . . See, she is up there 
in the tower. Her white lace shawl shows by the open 
window. She waits for you. Go to her.” 

Langdale gripped the doctor’s hand in silent thanks. 


CHAPTER XVni 


THE MYSTERY OF CASTLE KREMENZ 


T HE season at Eelsbrunnen was dying. 

From the study of the local 66 bath doctor,” 
Dr. Wycherley looked out over the marble drink- 
ing fountain and the half-deserted promenade, sorrow- 
ful with the leaves fluttering softly down from the yel- 
lowing lindens, yet beautiful in its sorrow. 

66 So you leave to-night? ” said the local man. He 
had called Dr. Wycherley into consultation over the 
case of a very rich patient whom he was “ nursing.” 

“ Yes. All your patient needs is a spade or a wash- 
tub, and someone to drive her to work. A sheer case 
of gluttony and underwork.” 

“ Natiirlich ! But one does not tell them so. Such 
patients, properly worked, are little gold-mines. She 
had a fancy to call in some specialist from a distance — 
the further away the better — and so I wrote to you in 
Italy. It will mean a fat cheque for you, and she will 
be quite happy.” He laughed cynically. 

But the mental healer turned away in disgust and 
looked out again over the promenade of the lindens, 
where the “ Kurgaste 99 strolled slowly up and down. 
He had a deep pride in his profession, his life-work, 
and it hurt him keenly to have it treated in this sordid 
192 


MYSTERY OF CASTLE KREMENZ 


fashion. “ My time has been utterly wasted,” he re- 
plied. “ No cheque compensates me for that. From 
your letter to me at Lake Rovellasco I gathered that 
you had a case of very special psychological interest; 
otherwise I should never have made the long journey 
to here. Your patient is looking for a fortune-teller, 
not a scientist.” 

The little man with the Kaiser moustache bristled 
angrily. “ If you want science without pay,” he 
snapped, “ you’d better take on a case like the von 
Hessele girl ! That miserable-looking creature over 
there by the spring. That will give you all the psycho- 
logical problem you want, and as for pay . . . well, 
the von Hesseles are as poor as church mice, and they’re 
not wasting money over the fancied illnesses of a paid 
companion.” 

Dr. Wycherley replied evenly : “ That English girl. 
Yes, I had been watching her for some time past. 
There is something very strange about her — something 
I have not yet settled in my mind. She is young, and 
yet she conveys to me a deep impression of Autumn. 
The leaves are falling from her tree of life. Why? ” 

“ She is going the way of the others.” 

“ The others?” 

“ The other paid companions of the Grafin von 
Hessele. They don’t seem to last long. Castle Kre- 
menz appears to be an unhealthy place — a very un- 
healthy place — for young girls. But that’s none of 
my business.” 

“ Whose affair is it? ” 

The little man shrugged his shoulders. w No one’s. 

193 


THE MIND-READER 


Yours, if you like. But let me tell you that it’s not 
a poisoning mystery. They seem to fade away, and 
then they give or get notice. Nothing more. As 
for the reason, there’s the problem for you. The castle 
is a few miles away from Felsbrunnen. It’s a ruined 
shell of long-ago grandeur, and probably it’s ghosts 
that make it unhealthy. The von Hesseles have always 
been known as a queer, eccentric family ; I daresay they 
did a few lively murders in their day. You’re a col- 
lector of ghosts, I hear, so you ought to find yourself 
in your element at Castle Kremenz.” He laughed with 
an undercurrent of contemptuous malice. 

The mental healer took up his hat and stick. 
Everything this man said and thought grated, jarred 
on him, and he longed to get away into the fresh, clean 
air outside. Abruptly he made some excuse, turned 
and went out on the promenade of the lindens. 

The visitors left at this dying season were nearly 
all the genuine Kurgaste; the gay element that comes 
to Felsbrunnen as part of their yearly routine of pleas- 
ure had left the yellowing leaves and the tired sun for 
the glittering shop-windows and the flaunting lights of 
the cities. Amongst those who lingered by the baths 
and the fountain was this English girl, the companion 
to the Grafin von Hessele, walking slowly up and down 
with a nickel cup of spring-water in her hand, sipping 
at it from time to time in a tired, nerveless way. A leaf 
fluttered down from a linden and softly brushed against 
her face. She started violently and let the cup slip 
from her nerveless fingers. 

Dr. Wycherley, passing in his walk, came quickly 

194 


MYSTERY OF CASTLE KREMENZ 


forward and restored the cup to her with a courtesy 
6omewhat old-world in its elaboration. 

She thanked him and said : “ It was careless of me, 
but it’s easily remedied. I will get a fresh cupful.” 
And she made to leave. 

“ No,” said Dr. Wycherley. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“ That leaf was a message.” 

" I don’t understand you.” 

“A silent warning. It tapped you on the cheek, 
but it could do no more. See it lying there, pitifully 
dumb. Its work is over. Perhaps it was created on 
purpose to flutter down and warn you. Who knows ? ” 

“ What a strange thought ! But what warning do 
you mean ? ” 

“ Your health.” 

“ I know, the Graf has told me already. That’s why 
I come here, whenever I can leave the Grafin, in order to 
drink the waters.” 

“ What has he told you? . . . Ah, you are wonder- 
ing why I am asking such a question. I am a doctor, 
a psychologist — my name is Wycherley. . . .No, I 
have no motive beyond interest in my life-work and in- 
terest in your special case. . . . No, I am not eccentric, 
or at least I flatter myself I am not. Perhaps it is 
vanity on my part ? ” 

The girl broke into a smile. “ Why, you’re reading 
my thoughts one after another. How strange to be able 
to do that ! ” 

“ 1 am gifted to a certain extent with the psychic 
sense, and I have trained it for my special purposes. 
195 


THE MIND-READER 


It has told me so much about you, that I am anxious 
to learn more. I should let you know, in strict fair- 
ness, that I have made enquiries about you. They tell 
me that you are the companion to the Grafin von Hes- 
sele, that you live a few miles away from here at Castle 
Kremenz, and that your health has lately been getting 
worse. I read in you a deep surge of emotions un- 
der ...” 

She stiffened perceptibly, and Dr. Wycherley quick- 
ly broke off : “ Ah, you feel that I am intrusive, that I 
am forcing myself upon you ! Perhaps I should explain 
that I have been called across half Europe in consulta- 
tion to a case here in Felsbrunnen. I arrived yester- 
day. My intention was to return to-night to my island 
on Lake Rovellasco. In that case we should probably 
never meet again, and the warning of your leaf would 
die stillborn. Yet if I could have been of service to 
you, I would have postponed my return. ... As mat- 
ters stand, it will perhaps be better for me to adhere to 
my plan.” 

He raised his hat in a manner somewhat old-world 
in its courtesy, and made to leave her. 

She was clearly torn between conflicting emotions, 
and not until the doctor had moved away did decision 
come. Then she took a few quick steps and laid her 
hand on his arm impulsively. “ Doctor, I was ungrate- 
ful ! Please forgive me ! Sometimes my thoughts drive 
me to do things I don’t mean to do. Perhaps it’s the 
melancholy of the castle. My nerves are not right. I 
imagine things. ...” 

“ It is a strong motive that keeps you at Castle 

196 


MYSTERY OF CASTLE KREMENZ 


Kremenz,” said Dr. Wycherley as she hesitated and 
paused. 

The girl shrank slightly as she answered in haste: 
“ Yes, of course I have my living to get, and posts are 
not easy to find. My name is Margaret McKaye ; my 
dear father was Colonel McKaye of the Black Watch. 
Perhaps you have heard his name in connection with 
the Afridi campaign? Unfortunately he had very little 
to leave us — hence my post as companion.” 

“ Strangely enough, I was in India at the time, on 
the Border, investigating the so-called occult. I sug- 
gested to the authorities a certain novel method of 
settling the Afridi rising; if my advice had been taken, 
your father’s life would not have been sacrificed.” 

“ But surely you’re not a service man ! ” 

“ Ah, my dear young lady, you have inherited the 
military idea that risings are only to be put down with 
lead and steel. That was precisely the view of the au- 
thorities, although every one of them knew that death 
in battle had not the slightest terror for an Afridi. 
Now, on the other hand . . . but these details of native 
habits of thoughts would scarcely interest you. I can- 
not say that I knew your father, though I dined once 
at the mess of the Black Watch and met him there. 
Still, that should serve sufficiently for conventional in- 
troduction.” 

“ What did you think of my father when you met 
him? ” asked Miss McKaye with an eager flush on her 
hitherto white cheeks. 

“ We scarcely exchanged a dozen words. Natu- 
rally I could see at a glance that he was one of those 
197 


THE MIND-READER 


fine, straight, fearless men who will carry out any im- 
possible order without a second’s hesitation. A 
4 Charge of the Light Brigade ’ man. The type of man 
who saves England in spite of muddle at the top.” 

44 Yes, that was my father,” she meditated. 

44 Suppose we sit down and discuss your case? I 
see a quiet seat over there below the terrace of the 
baths.” 

44 Shall I fill my cup first ? ” Her tone now was 
that of patient to doctor. 44 Of course you believe in 
the waters ? ” she added. 

44 The waters are good for those who believe in 
them,” continued the doctor, with his gentle irony. 
44 To give impressiveness, the bath authorities publish 
a chemical analysis to eight significant figures. In 
point of fact, with the method of analysis employed, the 
limits of error in the most skilled hands are within six 
significant figures. That is typical of the insincerity 
of these cure resorts.” 

Margaret put down her empty cup on the seat, a 
little reluctantly. The blood had left her face, and it 
was again white and pinched. Under her eyes were 
tired hollows, and her eyelids drooped wearily. 

Dr. Wycherley was observing her intently, not only 
with his eyes but also with his inner psychic sense, so 
sensitive to the vibrations of the minds of others. As 
if in continuation of his previous remarks, he took up 
the thread of conversation : 44 That will indicate to you 
my own opinion as to the value of the waters. I note 
that it is opposed to his.” 

The girl started violently. Her nerves were clearly 

198 


MYSTERY OF CASTLE KREMENZ 


ill-controlled. “ But . . . but . . . ,” she stammered, 
“ what do you mean ? Whom do you mean ? I don’t 
understand you ! ” 

“ The Graf von Hessele.” 

66 When did you meet him ? ” 

“ I have never met him. I never even knew that he 
existed until you mentioned him a little while ago. . . . 
No, you are misjudging me. I have no wish to probe 
into your private thoughts out of mere curiosity. Only, 
if I am to act as your medical adviser, I must ask for 
complete confidence. . . . No, I have no personal motive 
beyond the pursuit of my life-study, medical psychol- 

°gy” 

With her quick changes of mood, Margaret turned 
to him impulsively : “ Indeed I ought to thank you deep- 
ly for the interest you are taking in me. I have so 
few friends that I am very very grateful, believe me. 
I can feel that you are doing this for me out of pure 
kindness. Yes, I can trust you! . . . And oh, the re- 
lief it would be to have someone to confide in! The 
melancholy of the castle ! Ruin and decay everywhere. 
The Grafin sitting motionless in her chair day after 
day and week after week. Always dressed in white — 
dead white. Her son, the Graf, always so busy in his 
laboratory, working at his experiments. No one else 
to talk to — no visitors ; the housekeeper silent and sul- 
len. In the daytime so quiet and still, and then at 
night! ...” She broke off abruptly in her torrent 
of words, and for some moments there was silence be- 
tween them. 


199 


THE MIND-READER 


From a yellowing linden another leaf fluttered soft- 
ly down and settled in the girl’s lap. 

Dr. Wycherley pointed to it. “ Its message,” he 
said, “ is to tell me all. Only in that way can I be of 
real help to you.” 

Her answer came in a voice lowered almost to a whis- 
per, as though there were watchers to overhear them — 
invisible watchers from another world: — 

“ 1 wonder if you have ever felt when you have en- 
tered a strange house that there is some peculiar atmos- 
phere about it — something indefinable that seems to 
cling to the place and gradually glide into your mind? 
It is a feeling I can scarcely put into words, Doctor, 
but it is a very real feeling.” 

The mental healer nodded sympathetically. 

“Well, it was like that when I first entered the 
service of the Grafin at Castle Kremenz. As I passed 
in by the drawbridge, under the old ruined gate, and 
into the great half -empty rooms of the castle, something 
seemed to close in around me and to press itself over my 
mind — first like a thin, gossamer cobweb, then like a 
very fine veil, then gradually thicker and thicker until 
at times I feel it like a blanket weight upon me.” Her 
eyelids drooped as though there were some real physical 
weight upon them. “ And when the blanket moves a 
tremour goes through me. It is as though someone were 
trying to pull at my mind, trying to get the fingers 
upon it; but feebly, just as a tiny baby would pluck at 
one. Tug . . . tug . . . tug.” 

“The conditions of your post are easy?” 

“ I oughtn’t to complain. The Grafin is a confirmed 

200 


MYSTERY OF CASTLE KREMENZ 


invalid — paralysed in the lower half of the body — and 
chiefly I am required to read to her in German for hours 
on end. I go on reading, and she never makes a com- 
ment. Sometimes I wonder if she is listening or mere- 
ly day-dreaming. But my other duties are light, and 
since posts as companion are difficult to get, I suppose 
I ought to be thankful to have mine.” 

“ Her son?” 

“ Graf Otto is a man of about thirty-five. His 
hobby is chemical research, and he has a laboratory 
fitted up in the tower. At least, I understand it is 
chemical research, for I have never been inside his rooms. 
He allows no one whatever to enter. He is very re- 
served, but he is very clever, I know, and he is particu- 
larly kind to me. He is always enquiring after my 
health and having special dishes prepared to build up 
my strength. He insists, too, on my going to Felsbrun- 
nen to drink the waters whenever his mother can spare 
me. The Graf is a man I ... I very much esteem.” 

Dr. Wycherley made no direct comment. He had 
already sensed the motive that kept Margaret McKaye 
chained to her post at Castle Kremenz. But he asked 
this: “He has never married?” 

“ No, not to my knowledge.” A flush came into her 
face as she said this, and her eyes were fixed on the 
pebbles she was digging into with the point of her sun- 
shade. 

“ One further question : how did you come into the 
service of the Grafin ? ” 

“ Through the International Agency in London. I 
knew German well — I was educated in Hanover — and 
201 


THE MIND-READER 


that was my great recommendation. That and the fact 
that I looked strong and healthy before I came to live 
here. Of course I know that appearances are deceptive 
and that people who look strong are not always so. I 
expect the Graf has been very disappointed in me, 
though he would never make a complaint in that direc- 
tion. Before he engaged me in London, at the agency, 
he required me to go through a medical examination 
with a Harley Street man.” 

“ The Graf engaged you ? ” 

“ Yes, naturally. The Grafin is a complete invalid, 
and she does not travel about. I saw her first only 
when I entered Castle Kremenz, and she looked me over 
with her quick beady eyes in an instant and said : ‘ Good. 
She will serve.’ Then she relapsed into her strange 
day-dreaming again.” 

“Now to take up a former point: at night- 
time . . . ? ” 

Margaret shivered involuntarily as the doctor 
brought back her thoughts to the point at which she 
had suddenly broken off some minutes before. She an- 
swered : “ In the day-time it is so silent and lonely, and 
then in the night there come the strange whisperings 
and creakings, and worse, the terrors that move on 
padded feet and make not the slightest sound! You 
can feel them approaching you without making the 
slightest sound, creeping stealthily up to the bed, nearer 
. . . nearer . . . nearer! Your heart stands still, as 
you wait for them to touch you ! ! Oh, you will think I 
am talking nonsense, I know. Just the foolish fancies 
of an overstrung girl.” 


202 


MYSTERY OF CASTLE KREMENZ 


44 On the contrary, I never consider that patients 
are talking nonsense when they open their hearts to me. 
Thoughts and fancies are very real things — far bigger 
realities than people usually allow. What a man or 
woman thinks is far more important in life than what 
is said or done. Thoughts are a man’s wealth or illth. 
. . . But haven’t you tried special means to give you 
sound sleep ? ” 

44 Indeed, yes ! The Graf has been particularly 
kind to me in that way. He has given me a special 
prescription to ensure sleep — there’s a new discovery 
of his own in it, I believe. It’s wonderful stuff to make 
one sleep all through the night, though in the morning 
it sometimes leaves one with a tired feeling. But if it 
hadn’t been for that sleeping mixture, I don’t think I 
could have endured staying on at the castle. . . . Now, 
Doctor, your eyes have been piercing into me — what do 
you read, what have you to say to me? ” 

44 First, put your hand in mine.” Dr. Wycherley 
took her hand in his own cool, firm grasp, and held it 
for many moments, while with closed eyes he concen- 
trated intently on the feelings it brought before his 
mind — queer rapid flashes of sensation that he had long 
trained himself to analyse and interpret. 

Then he released her hand and said: 44 This evening 
I come to the castle to see you in the capacity of an 
old friend of your father’s. We will meet apparently 
for the first time for many years. You will introduce 
me to the Grafin and her son and have me invited to 
stay to dinner ” 

44 But you forget my position,” interrupted Mar- 

203 


THE MIND-READER 


garet. “ I am only the companion to the Grafin, 
and ” 

“ Conventions are walls of pasteboard — only solid 
when seen from a distance. If necessary I will invite 
myself to dinner. Now remember, you have a part 
to play.” 

“ But a deception of that kind would mean that I 
was distrusting Graf Otto and his mother ! That would 
scarcely be right after all his — after all their kindnesses 
to me.” 

Dr. Wycherley bent his grave dark eyes upon hers. 
“ You assume,” he said, “ that the Grafin and her son 
and the servants are the only inhabitants of Castle Kre- 
menz.” 

The girl chilled with sudden horror. 66 Why, what 
do you mean ? What a strange thought ! ” 

The doctor did not reply to this. He was scrib- 
bling rapidly on a scrap of paper with his left hand, 
making quick rough sketches that were the embodiments 
of the fragmentary flashes he had sensed with his inner 
vision. 


CHAPTER XIX 


INSIDE THE CASTLE 

T HE castle lay back amongst the mountains from 
Felsbrunnen, some four miles by the forest path 
but nearly eight by road. For the purpose of 
his plan Hr. Wycherley decided not to hire a carriage 
or jmotor, but to walk there. In that way it would be 
difficult for the Grafin to refuse hospitality to a stran- 
ger arriving late in the afternoon, just before dinner- 
time. The sky looked uncertain, too, and that made 
another element in his favour. 

For possible eventualities he had brought an electric 
torch and stowed it away in an inner pocket. If cir- 
cumstances forced him to return to Felsbrunnen through 
the black night over a rough forest path, it would 
prove decidedly useful. Or there might be other uses 
for it even more important. 

As the doctor tramped through the forest of sombre 
pines, up the mountain-side behind Felsbrunnen, his 
thoughts were deeply concentrated on the case of Mar- 
garet McKaye. Here was a matter fifty times more 
interesting and more important than the case of glut- 
tony and underwork to which he had been called into 
consultation. 

It still remained a riddle to the mental healer, in 

205 


THE MIND-READER 


spite of what he had unravelled. What was it that was 
sapping the strength of the young girl — something ma- 
terial in the realm of the physical, or something beyond? 
The flashes of ghoulish semi-human features that had 
come to him as he held her hand and put himself en 
rapport with her inner thoughts — what did these refer 
to? 

It was a riddle only to be solved in the fashion of 
the scientist, by experiment. And where an experiment 
was concerned, Dr. Wycherley grudged neither time 
nor thought nor money. The science of mind had for 
him the passionate interest that money-making has for 
the financier, cricket or golf for the keen sportsman, 
collecting for the connoisseur. And where the claims 
of science and humanity ran concurrently, as in this 
case of a friendless girl alone in a foreign land, he was 
trebly interested. 

He was now passing down into a cliff-flanked valley 
on the other side of the mountain from Felsbrunnen. 
It was late afternoon, sunless, grey as to sky, a mourn- 
ful spiritless grey. The pines had given place to 
beeches, reddening with autumn tints, the leaves droop- 
ing sorrowfully and now and again fluttering silently 
down to the undergrowth of tangled briar and wild rasp- 
berry. The stillness of the forest was the mournful 
stillness of the summer that is passing away. A still- 
ness that creeps into the soul of man or woman. A 
grey silent dirge of the dying year. 

The Castle of Kremenz comes suddenly into view 
as one rounds a corner of the cliff-flanked valley. It is 
perched high above, but it is almost hidden amongst the 
206 


INSIDE THE CASTLE 


tall trees when seen from below. Since the old days 
when it was the stronghold of a robber baron, standing 
flauntingly alone, the forest has crept round it in a 
silent advance, and the weeds and the briars now clutch 
at the ruined outer walls and creep over into the court- 
yards. 

But the main portion of the castle stands firm 
against the decay around, and the tower-keep makes a 
landmark for the valley. 

There was a bell to pull at the drawbridge gate that 
jangled harshly through the empty, weed-grown court- 
yards. It was answered by a queer little shrivelled old 
manservant who looked very dubiously at a visitor ap- 
pearing on foot at that hour of the day. Dr. Wycher- 
ley asked for the Graf von Hessele, and after a wait of 
some ten minutes or more the Graf came to see him in 
the great bare reception-room. 

The mental healer had long since learnt to rely on 
the general trend of first impressions — those heteroge- 
neous sensations that come to one in a rush of feeling 
before the intellect has time to separate and analyse. 
In this case the rush of first impressions brought a feel- 
ing of deep distrust to Dr. Wycherley; yet on closer 
analysis there seemed to be little in the way of logical 
reason for it. The Graf von Hessele was a man of 
thirty-five, though his studies had bent his shoulders and 
given him the air of settled middle-age. His features 
were fine-cut with aristocratic lineage; his voice was 
coldly courteous; even in his rough laboratory clothes 
he looked unmistakably a man of breeding and culture. 
And there was a certain magnetism of outward person- 
207 


THE MIND-READER 


ality, difficult to analyse in words, which made under- 
standable Margaret McKaye’s silent passion — a pas- 
sion unreciprocated. 

In his hand he held Dr. Wycherley’s card, towards 
which he glanced enquiringly. 

“ I am passing through Felsbrunnen,” explained 
the doctor. “ To-night I leave for Italy. By the mer- 
est chance I heard that you have in the castle, as com- 
panion to the Grafin, the daughter of a very old friend 
of mine, Colonel McKaye. This is my reason for what 
would otherwise be an unwarrantable intrusion.” 

“ I will give orders to have your coachman or chauf- 
feur looked after while you are seeing Miss McKaye,” 
answered the Graf coldly, after a very slight hesitation. 
He had a mannerism of pulling at his closely-cropped 
beard which somehow conveyed an unpleasant impres- 
sion, though there was no logical reason for it. 

66 1 have neither. As an old man with strong prej- 
udice, I preferred to walk rather than engage a motor- 
car. But the way has proved longer and more tiring 
than I expected.” The doctor paused significantly. 

The Graf affected not to take the meaning of this 
significant pause, so Dr. Wycherley asked boldly, yet 
with a courtesy of manner that would have made refusal 
boorish in the extreme, for what he wanted : “ Perhaps I 
might further intrude on your hospitality? The way 
has been tiring, and it will be long after dinner-time be- 
fore I can reach Felsbrunnen. As an old man, my 
bodily needs are simple.” 

# #■ # * * # 


208 


INSIDE THE CASTLE 


Dinner in the great half-empty dining-room — pan- 
elled in age-black oak and hung with the portraits of the 
dead and gone von Hesseles, looking down at the diners 
in the pride of a vanished grandeur — was a meal of 
deadly silences. 

The Grafin, a woman of fifty-five or so, with aquiline 
nose and piercing eyes, sat in grim silence in her invalid 
chair drawn up to the table, robed in dead white. Only 
at rare intervals did she make a comment, and then its 
sharpness cut into the air like a whip. Her son con- 
versed with a cold courtesy, barely hiding the fact that 
he heartily wished the meal over and the doctor on his 
way back to Felsbrunnen. 

Every now and again he pulled at his closely- 
cropped beard in a way that told of his masked im- 
patience. 

But the deadly silences did not displease the doctor. 
On the contrary, they were helpful to him in his disen- 
tangling of the riddle of Castle Kremenz, for while 
speech is mostly a concealment of thought, silence 
speaks nakedly to the inner hearing of the sensitive. 
And by the end of the meal he had made up his mind 
to his plan of action. 

Before leaving, he took a short walk with Mar- 
garet round the ruined courtyards in the darkening, 
star-clouded night. 

44 I want you to point me out your bedroom,” said 
the doctor. 

44 That window up above where I have put the box 
of ferns on the sill.” 

Dr. Wycherley measured carefully with his eye the 

209 


THE MIND-READER 


distance from the sill to an iron staple bedded in the 
stone wall below. “ It will need at least ten yards,” 
he mused. 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” 

“ Rope. Have you ten yards of rope for the cord- 
ing of your boxes? ” 

“ Yes, but . . . but . . . ,” she stammered, “ what 
do you mean by that? How do you want to use my 
rope ? ” 

For reply Dr. Wycherley took out his pocket-book 
and a pencil, and then began to make, left-handedly, a 
rapid sketch on its pages. Finally he tore the page 
out and handed it to Margaret, flashing his electric 
torch so that she might see clearly what he had drawn 
on it. 

“ My father ! ” she cried. “ My dear father. Oh, 
may I keep this sketch ? ” 

“ With pleasure,” replied the doctor. 66 My point 
is here : your father was one of those fine, fearless sol- 
diers who will carry out any impossible order without 
an instant’s hesitation. From you, his daughter, I ask 
the same spirit. Have you the courage ? ” 

By the light of the torch Dr. Wycherley could see 
the flush of understanding and sympathy in her face. 
He clicked out the light and continued : “ I am going 
to give you orders which are equally 4 impossible ’ in 
the social sense. To-night I want a rope-ladder hung 
out from your bedroom window so that I can climb up 
into your room from this courtyard. I am no longer 
a young man; a simple rope would be insufficient. I 
need a rope-ladder. Here is the way in which I want 
210 


INSIDE THE CASTLE 


you to make one.” He plucked a couple of long grass 
stems from the weeds in the courtyard and proceeded 
to show her his meaning. 44 In that way I shall be able 
to get to your bedroom later on and watch over you 
through the night. . . . Yes, I know all this is socially 
4 impossible,’ but social conventions are only of paste- 
board importance. Mrs. Grundy is an excellent paste- 
board person in her proper place. Let us keep her 
there. . . . To-night you will tell them that your nerves 
are feeling out of order and that you would like a 
strong sleeping-draught. You will take that sleeping- 
draught, lock your bedroom door from the inside, hang 
out from your window a thin string attached to the 
rope-ladder, so that I can pull out the rope by its aid, 
and go off to sleep in perfect confidence. Meanwhile I 
will take my leave of the Grafin and her son, and spend 
the hours of waiting on the path back to Felsbrunnen.” 

44 But, Doctor, it will rain. You might get your 
death of cold waiting in the forest. I couldn’t let you 
risk that for me.” 

44 There is a disused woodman’s hut I noticed on my 
way here. That will shelter me. Now I want your 
promise that you will carry out your orders exactly 
as your father would have carried out his.” 


CHAPTER XX 


THE SECRET OF THE LABORATORY 

I T was raining with a thin mournful drizzle when 
a couple of hours later Dr. Wycherley made his 
way over the broken outer wall where the briars 
and weeds clambered, and stood in the courtyard of the 
castle below Margaret’s window. He reflected that the 
rain would help to veil any slight accidental noise he 
might make, though indeed there was no reason why 
anyone should be listening. 

The string was there, and by its aid he pulled out 
the rope ladder — a rough, amateurish production, but 
sufficient for its purpose if well secured inside. That 
point must be risked. 

The ladder held, and soon he was inside the room 
and taking off his sodden cloak. Margaret lay on her 
bed, as the electric torch showed him, sleeping with the 
heavy breathing of the drug-taker. As a matter of 
experiment the doctor shook her by the shoulders with 
increasing force, but she only turned over drowsily 
without waking up. It was evident that the sleeping- 
draught produced a deep stupor — almost an anaesthesia. 

Then he turned to examine the room. Like most 
of the rooms in Castle Kremenz, it was walled with stone 
covered over with cement. To relieve the depression 
212 


SECRET OF THE LABORATORY 


Margaret had had some of her own pictures sent over 
from England to hang on the walls. The door was 
locked from the inside. The floor was of stone flags, 
over which rugs had been spread. A strange detail: 
the legs of the bed were chained to the stone flooring. 
Chests and wardrobes of black oak stood grimly around 
with an air of guarding secrets of the forgotten past. 

The drizzle of the rain outside made a mournful 
background of sound. 

And for long hours Dr. Wycherley waited in his 
chair, watching for he knew not what. Into his sen- 
sitive mind came impressions which tallied broadly with 
those that Margaret had described to him, and he knew 
that there were realities behind them. Once, as he 
closed his eyes in a light doze, there flashed before his 
inner vision a procession of grey-robed girls, drooping, 
listless, mournful, with Autumn in their eyes — a proces- 
sion which vanished in a flash as he set his mind to 
study it. 

Now he knew one of the reasons for Margaret’s in- 
tense depression in that sombre environment — a depres- 
sion that went beyond mere imaginings. The room was 
peopled not with ghosts, but with ghosts of thoughts , 
with the lingering melancholy of the companions to the 
Grafin who had lived in that room before Margaret’s 
time and had faded away as she was fading away. 
They had gone, but their concentration of thoughts, 
running all on the same lines, had left behind them a 
psychic atmosphere of grey melancholy. 

Yet that was not all. 


213 


THE MIND-READER 


There must have been a reason, a tangible reason, 
for their melancholy and their drooping of life. 

If Autumn had come to them young, as it was com- 
ing to Margaret, what was the basic cause? What was 
the meaning of that ghoulish, half-human figure that 
had flashed before his inner vision while he was holding 
Margaret’s hand? 

For long hours Dr. Wycherley waited in tireless 
patience for what might solve the mystery. 

It was going on towards midnight before action 
came. At first it was a slight noise of creaking that 
caught his sensitive ear and made him alert and tense 
on the instant. Then the creaking grew louder, and 
with a sudden shock the doctor realised as he looked 
over at the bed that this was sinking slowly to floor-level. 
He crept nearer to it on hands and knees. It was sink- 
ing to floor-level because the stone flags beneath it, to 
which it was clamped, had sunk below the level of the 
rest. Machinery was lowering it to a room or wall- 
chamber underneath. With a chill of horror there came 
to the doctor a picture of what this must have implied 
in the olden times when might alone was right, and the 
laws of hospitality to the stranger within the gates 
meant little. In the olden times the von Hesseles or 
their predecessors had been free lance robber barons: 
perhaps here lay one of the secrets of their past wealth. 

But to-day such an explanation was out of the ques- 
tion. Why then was the bed of the young girl being 
lowered ? 

It had stopped now, and Dr. Wycherley crept si- 
lently to the side of the pit in the flooring from which 
214 


SECRET OF THE LABORATORY 


a dim lantern light struck upwards. With the back of 
a metal pocket drug-case to act as mirror, he lay flat 
on the flags and looked by reflection down in the hole. 

Down below, by the side of the sleeping girl, still 
breathing heavily, was Graf Otto, fixing behind her 
shoulders what seemed to be a hypodermic syringe con- 
nected by tubing to a pump-like apparatus. But it 
was no syringe. Exactly the opposite. In a flash 
there came to Dr. Wycherley the realisation of what 
the Graf was doing. His apparatus was to suck blood 
out of the sleeping girl! Already he was starting to 
work the small hand-pump connected with the suction 
needle fixed behind her shoulders. 

Dr. Wycherley wasted no time in seeking further 
explanation. Though an old man, he was at the edge 
of the pit in an instant and had leapt down, straight 
on to the Graf so as to break his own fall. 

There was a snap of a bone and a hoarse cry of 
terror and pain as the doctor came down full weight on 
Graf Otto, bent low over his ghoulish work and unaware 
of the watcher above. Then in a brief struggle the 
lantern smashed out, the Graf wrenched himself free* 
and sounds told that he was groping his way out of 
the pit by some secret passage. Flashing his elec- 
tric torch, Dr. Wycherley rapidly made sure that Mar- 
garet had not been injured in the struggle. She was 
still stupefied with the sleeping-draught, but unhurt; 
the doctor left her to follow the Graf. 

The pursuit led through a narrow passage at the 
end of the pit, up a long flight of steps that ran un- 
doubtedly in the thickness of a wall, again along 
215 


an- 


THE MIND-READER 


other secret passage, and then suddenly out into a 
lighted room where a profusion of chemical apparatus 
told at once that here was Graf Otto’s private study. 
But it was not the apparatus of the research student 
that took Dr. Wycherley’s attention, nor the Graf him- 
self lying on a couch where he had thrown himself f aint- 
ing from the pain of his broken arm. 

It was an old woman sitting in a barred chair in a 
corner of the room — a chair that held her back from 
movement. But “ old ” is an adjective totally inade- 
quate to describe her. Her age must have been far be- 
yond the hundred; in her face were furrows graven as 
in the image of an Eastern idol. And when she caught 
sight of the doctor she cried, in a toothless mumble that 
rose screechingly like the voice of a parrot : 66 Give me 
blood. Give me blood ! Give me blood ! ! ” 

Then her voice went down to a mumble, and again 
up to the shrill parrot screech, while she clawed to 
loosen herself from the barred chair with hands like 
a vulture’s, horrible in their fleshlessness. 

For a moment Dr. Wycherley recoiled from this 
terrible,' ghoul-like creature. But only for a moment, 
and then he went quickly to the couch where the Graf 
lay in a faint, and loosened his collar and put his head 
low to bring him round to consciousness. In a few 
minutes he had recovered, to find the doctor strapping 
his broken arm against a wooden retort-clamp, as an 
improvised splint. 

“ Who are you ? ” he asked feebly. And then, with 
his voice gaining strength as full consciousness returned 
to him : “ Of course — I see now. That verfluchte doc- 
216 



“ ‘ Give me blood Give me blood ! Give me blood ! ! ’ ** 











SECRET OF THE LABORATORY 


tor. And what the devil are you doing in my house? 
How did you get here? What right have you 
to ?” 

Dr. Wycherley interrupted him without ceremony: 
u We will leave those questions. First answer mine. 
Why were you extracting blood from Miss McKaye? 

“ Come, answer me ! ” he went on imperiously as the 
Graf set his teeth in silence. “ It was to inject into 
this . . . this terrible creature, was it not ? Why ? ” 

“ She was mad for it,” answered the Graf sullenly, 
plucking at his close-cropped beard with his usual un- 
consciously nervous gesture. “ You don’t understand 
the matter ; it was the only thing to be done.” 

“ Again, why ? ” 

“ It is like the drug habit. When I began years 
ago, it was only a scientific experiment. You under- 
stand me — a scientific experiment. To introduce a 
fresh strain of phagocytes into the circulation channels, 
and so prolong her life. But her system began to ad- 
just itself to the injections, and then one had to con- 
tinue with them. I tell you there was nothing else to 
be done ; she began to scream for the injections. I have 
to keep her in the sound-padded room above — at the top 
of the tow r er.” 

“ Who is she? ” 

“ My great-grand-mother.” 

“ Your great-grand-mother ! ” 

Again there came that toothless mumble from the 
shrivelled figure in the barred chair, rising to the shrill 
parrot screech. 

The Graf started to rise from the couch, saying: 

217 


THE MIND-READER 


“It is four days since the last injection; if she does 
not get it to-night ” 

But Dr. Wycherley thrust him back firmly on to 
the couch. “ You will lie there quietly. In a few mo- 
ments I will summon someone to attend to you. First 
I want to know this : how long has this devilish practice 
been going on in regard to Miss McKaye? Come, I 
insist on an answer ! ” 

“ Since she came,” was the reluctant reply. 

“ How often? 99 

“ It used to be a week. Now it has to be more often. 
One is forced to it.” 

“ Every few days ? 99 

“ Yes.” This very reluctantly. 

“ And you have been draining a young girl of life 
to keep the spark burning in this old woman? You 
have been fanning her secret love for you in order to 
keep her chained here at Castle Kremenz; in order to 
provide life serum for this horrible . . . creature? 
No, it’s more than that. To provide you with material 
for your experiments, just as you are using this great- 
grand-mother of yours as material. Because you your- 
self hope to live later on by the life serum of others. 
If you seek an elixir vitae, it is for yourself! Answer 
me, am I right or wrong? 99 

But Graf Otto had turned his head away — his face 
was ashen-grey. 

Dr. Wycherley rose with a shiver of loathing and 
made for the secret passage that led back to the pit 
where Margaret McKaye lay stupefied on the bed. And 
as he went, there followed on the sound of his footsteps 
218 


SECRET OF THE LABORATORY 


the toothless mumble of the old woman cut into by curt 
orders from the Graf. 

He heard, too, through the arrow slit, the sound 
of servants clattering over the courtyard to the base of 
the tower. 

******* 

It took months of skilled care and attention before 
Margaret McKaye was brought back again to her for- 
mer health of body and mind. Dr. Wycherley had 
taken her to his island on the still waters of Lake Rovel- 
lasco, and in that garden of spices she came gradually 
to forget the shock of learning the true story of the 
mystery of the Castle, and to thrust out of mind the 
secret passion for the Graf that had kept her chained 
at Kremenz against the cry of every other instinct of 
her nature. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE VOICE FROM THE OTHER WORLD 

V ENICE had shaken herself free from the blanket- 
heats of sweltering summer, and had plunged 
relievedly into the clean cool breezes of October 
as into a marble swimming-pool of crystal, cleansing 
waters. Venice wakes to new life in the fall of the year, 
claiming it as her spring. Then her lovers seek her 
once again to offer homage. “Non cosi nol mondo; 
nulla citta piu bella.” 

Dr. Wycherley, so ultra-modem in many respects 
and so old-fashioned in others, kept a tiny corner of 
his heart for the old-world romanticism of Venice, even 
though it were being snowed over these days by hordes 
of hustling tourists, by sea-bathing week-enders, by 
cinemas, penny steamboats on the Grand Canal, and 
projected, subway tubes. Once a year he travelled 
to Venice from his home on Lake Rovellasco to breathe 
in its fragrance of poetry in stone and marble. 

It was one October that he met at Venice an old 
acquaintance in the person of Mrs. Trevor Eordyce, the 
mother of Norman Fordyce the writer and poet. Dr. 
Wycherley had known her when the boy was first ad- 
venturing on the broad seas of literature; now he was 
famous over two continents. 

220 


FROM THE OTHER WORLD 


Mrs. Fordyce had greatly changed. It was not 
only that time had frosted her hair and drawn inefface- 
able lines on forehead and cheek; the change went far 
deeper than that — into the very roots of her being. 

They reclined in a gondola together, and the red- 
sashed gondolier drove them with slow, even, powerful 
strokes over the rippling lagoon towards the Lido. 
The afternoon sun mingled its warmth with the fresh- 
ness of the Adriatic breeze to ideal perfection. 

44 Seven years ago since we first met, here in Venice, 
my dear friend,” she was saying, and there was a half- 
sigh in her voice. 44 That was the happiest time of my 
life. Why won’t you scientists invent some elixir which 
will keep our life at its zenith-point? ” 

44 And who is to say when the zenith-point is 
reached? ” 

44 We women know.” 

44 Tell me your secret.” 

44 Indefinable. We know — what more can I say ? ” 
44 Science will not rest content with such an answer.” 
“ Seven years ago my son was struggling for recog- 
nition. I was fighting for him, with him, shoulder to 
shoulder, we two against the world. That was the 
zenith of happiness. . . . Now he is famous.” Her 
voice sighed like the wind in the leaves of autumnal elms. 
44 He married.” 

44 When success came, he married. She was all that 
I could have hoped for in my son’s wife. Position; 
beauty ; a sweet nature.” 

44 And yet you hated her? ” 

44 She had taken away my only son.” 

221 


THE MIND-READER 


44 I am answered,” said the doctor gently. 

After a pause Mrs. Fordyce continued : 44 She died 
a year ago.” 

44 Then surely he came back to you.” 

“No!” The word was flung out with the fire of 
long-repressed emotion. 44 No ; she keeps him still! ” 

The doctor remained silent, with the silence of deep 
sympathy. 

44 How you draw out one’s inmost confidences ! ” 
pursued Mrs. Fordyce. 44 I find myself telling you 
things I have told to no one else.” 

“And why not? Perhaps it may be in my power 
to advise. ... Is there a child to link them together? ” 

“No child. I will tell you all. She keeps him to 
her by her voice — from the other world. She holds him 
fast to her by a whispered word. 4 Dearheart,’ she 
calls him still.” 

“ You mean literally a voice from the other world? ” 

“ Yes, literally. He hears her calling him. Not in 
dreams, but when awake. He can think of nothing else 
but her. He is always hoping to establish complete 
communication with her. His work, his mother, his 
friends — nothing matters to him now but that one fixed 
hope.” 

Dr. Wycherley looked at her keenly. 

“ At seances ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes.” 

44 You believe in spiritualistic seances, after all the 
exposures of trickery and fraud that have been made? ” 

44 What does it matter what I believe? Norman — 
he believes in them utterly. Nothing can shake his 
222 


FROM THE OTHER WORLD 


faith since he has heard his dead wife calling. 4 Dear- 
heart,’ she whispers. A few nights ago she spoke to 
him at greater length than ever before ; she recalled some 
little point about their honeymoon that could have only 
been known to themselves. No other living soul could 
possibly have known of it. It puts trickery out of the 
question, you see. And yet ” 

46 And yet you suspect the medium.” 

44 1 do, but I have no grounds to go on. She is not 
a professional medium. She is helping him to establish 
communication practically without fee. We have come 
to Venice because she is here.” 

44 Her name? ” 

44 Signora Franchini.” 

The name conveyed nothing to Dr. Wycherley. It 
was certainly not that of any well-known professional 
medium. 

44 Could I see her? ” he asked. 

44 It might possibly be arranged. But she does not 
welcome any casual stranger. She might object — she 
might say that your aura interfered.” 

Dr. Wycherley nodded. 44 Very probable.” 

44 Then what do you advise ? ” 

44 Your son must make an introduction for me.” 

* * * * * * * 

Norman Fordyce had the eyes of a dreamer. They 
held great depths of mystic, fanciful thought. They 
were gravely courteous, and yet they looked through 
and beyond one in a way that made lesser men suddenly 
realise their smallness. His long hair, prematurely 


THE MIND-READER 


touched with grey, fell across his forehead in a broad, 
careless sweep. He was tall, but a slight stoop, not 
unpleasant, discounted his height. 

All his writings were tinged with a symbolic mysti- 
cism and a wonderfully delicate fantasy. It had taken 
many years for even the cultured public to learn to 
appreciate the subtle flavour of his writings in prose 
and poetry, but now he had undoubtedly 44 arrived ” — 
his name carried weight and his opinions were listened 
to with respect by the thinkers of two continents. A 
thin booklet of essays — 44 The World in Travail ” — 
had even sprung to the position of a 44 best seller,” much 
to the astonishment of its publishers. 

Dr. Wycherley, who had a natural gift for the 
making of friends, found an unusual difficulty in getting 
in contact with Norman Fordyce. It was not until 
they had seen one another for two or three days that 
he found himself able to approach the subject of the 
spiritualistic seances. 

It was evening, in the Piazza San Marco, after din- 
ner. They sat at a table outside Quadri’s, under the 
broad colonnade of the square, sipping their coffee. 
Mrs. Fordyce, planning to leave them together, had 
stopped at her hotel with some slight excuse of a head- 
ache. 

An orchestra was playing light, gay music in the 
open square. Around it, visitors in evening dress, hat- 
less, mingled with the strollers of the city. The moon 
rode high — serene, unclouded. 

44 Moths,” mused the dreamer, as with a slight move- 
ment of his tapering fingers he indicated the circling 
Z9A 


FROM THE OTHER WORLD 


crowd. 44 What is the soul of a moth? A restless crav- 
ing for the light of pleasure — a reaching out with gross 
fingers for what can never be touched without the sear- 
ing of disillusion. If they would but turn their backs 
upon the light and seek in the outer darkness for the 
realities that have no meretricious brilliance. The un- 
seen — the real, the k eerily real ! 99 

44 It needs a sure step to tread the outer darkness,” 
returned Dr. Wycherley, thinking of the spiritualistic 
experiments. 

44 But the rewards are great — greater than anything 
material earth has to offer. To clasp hands across the 
infinities of space — to thrill to the thoughts of those who 
have passed into the realm of the untrammelled spirit ! ” 
44 1, like yourself, am an enquirer. My life has been 
spent on the borderland of the known and the unknown. 
Above all I have learnt this : to tread very warily in the 
unlighted region. There is firm ground, and there is 
the quagmire.” 

“ Do you believe, Doctor, in the life after death? ” 
“ I believe — yes. But I have no proof as yet.” 

44 Do you believe that those who have passed over 
can communicate with us who are left behind? ” 

44 I wait the evidence.” 

44 There is evidence already.” 

44 Inextricably tangled with fraud.” 

44 Not in my own case. I know — past all doubting.” 
44 That is a very strong statement.” 

44 1 can prove it to you ! ” said Fordyce with sudden 

fire. 


225 


44 How? ” 


THE MIND-READER 


“ Come with me to-night to the house of Signora 
Franchini. I am to have a sitting at ten o’clock.” 

“ She would probably not care for my presence,” ob- 
jected the doctor, knowing that objections would fan 
the sudden flame he had aroused. 

“ She would welcome any friend of mine,” answered 
Fordyce, 66 if he comes in the spirit of genuine enquiry. 
It is only the grossly material sceptic we object to.” 

“ One must needs be a sceptic before one can be a 
thorough believer.” 

“ Yes, I agree. It was so in my own case. Come, 
but do not expect too much from the first sitting. 
Conditions are not always favourable. We have to 
learn what the best conditions are. We have to grope 
in the outer darkness.” 

“ If I come,” replied Dr. Wycherley, “ you must 
allow me to come as a scientist.” 

66 And that means ? ” 

“ That I must exhaust all normal explanations be- 
fore I allow myself the supernormal explanation.” 

******* 

A gondola threaded them through a labyrinth of 
narrow waterways overhung by the balconies of dark 
and silent houses musing on their dead past. The curi- 
ous warning cry of the gondolier as he steered his craft 
round a blind corner cut sharply into the silence of the 
dark water-lanes. Occasionally an answering cry 
would meet his, and the two black gondolas would steal 
past one another like two creatures of the night bent 
on errands of mystery. Here a vine trailed down its 
226 


FROM THE OTHER WORLD 


long groping fingers over a wall that hid a garden, but 
mostly their path lay through canyons of dead stone 
unrelieved by any green of living plant. 

The gondolier brought them gently against a flight 
of stone steps leading from the water-depths up to an 
oaken door studded with heavy iron bosses. The win- 
dows on each side were guarded with a criss-cross of 
iron railing. It was the ancient palace of some long- 
dead merchant prince of Venice. The only light in the 
house came from a window on the second story, stealing 
out through the chinks of heavy curtains. 

Fordyce pulled at a bell-rope of metal, and an an- 
swering clang echoed around the canyons of the water- 
way. After a long wait an aged manservant appeared 
at the door, holding a lantern in his hand. He led the 
way into a bare stone entrance-hall and up a broad un- 
lighted flight of steps to the second story. 

It was a welcome relief to arrive in the lighted room 
where the Signora received them. There was little in 
the way of furniture in the room, and the heavy dark 
curtains to the windows gave it almost the aspect of a 
mortuary-chamber, but the lights of the candles in their 
sockets were at least human and cheering. 

The Signora was a woman of forty, well-preserved, 
with a wealth of lustrous dark hair and enigmatic eyes 
that held deep reserves under a smile of welcome. For- 
dyce introduced her to the doctor ; the two chatted for 
some minutes in an interchange of unimportant triviali- 
ties. Her words were seemingly frank and open, but 
Dr. Wycherley, keenly on guard, sought beneath them 
for the real woman. She spoke English admirably, 
227 


THE MIND-READER 


but with that careful valuation of words which marks 
one who speaks in a foreign tongue and has not acquired 
the easy slurring of the native. 

“ I welcome any enquiry that is unprejudiced,” said 
the Signora, “ and especially do I welcome any enquiry 
that is scientific. There is nothing to conceal. If it 
please you, Doctor, search the room to satisfy yourself.” 

“ Thank you — I do not think that necessary,” re- 
plied Dr. Wycherley, knowing that if fraud were afoot, 
there were a hundred unexpected ways in which it might 
be carried out. 

“ All I ask is the open mind and the fair play,” pur- 
sued the Signora. “ There are some who come to a 
seance to play practical jokes or to tell untruths as to 
what they see and hear. But in your case, Doctor, I 
am sure there is nothing of the sort I should fear. You 
are a scientist — you will be ready to testify even against 
your previous convictions, if you receive proof.” 

“ Most certainly.” 

“ But you must not expect too much all at once. 
Conditions are not always favourable. We do not yet 
know what conditions ar© the best. We must grope in 
the darkness, so to say.” 

The close resemblance of these words to some previ- 
ous remarks from Fordyce did not escape Dr. Wycher- 
ley. Evidently one of the two had borrowed thoughts 
from the other. 

The Signora drew close the heavy black velvet cur- 
tains by the windows and the door so as to exclude the 
faintest trace of light from the outside. She placed 
three chairs at the points of a triangle, leaving a space 
228 


FROM THE OTHER WORLD 


a couple of yards wide in the middle. Here she stood 
upright a long metal horn open at both ends — somewhat 
like a coaching horn. After asking permission, she ex- 
tinguished the candles, and the three sat in utter dark- 
ness on the chairs at the three points of the triangle. 

The darkness was so complete that it was impossible 
to distinguish one’s hand even a few inches away from 
the eyes. It became almost painful to keep one’s eyes 
open. 

The Signora began to croon very gently a lament 
from the liturgy of the Roman Catholic Church. Her 
voice was beautifully soft and flexible — with the softness 
of deep velvet. One’s senses sank to rest in its yielding 
depths. 

Then half-an-hour passed in utter silence. Whether 
the Signora or Fordyce had passed into trance, Dr. 
Wycherley had no means of telling. 

A faint odour began to fill the room — very faint and 
elusive. Dr. Wycherley strove to name it to himself. 
It was . . . yes, hawthorn, the sweet smell of an English 
countryside in May. 

Fordyce spoke suddenly, with a huskiness in his 
voice : “ The scent is beginning. She must be near to us 
now.” 

“ Hush ! ” said the Signora gently. 

Ten minutes passed. The silence began to be op- 
pressive in its insistent pressure on the senses — as 
though it called for the will to yield itself utterly to the 
fascination of the darkness and the unknown. 

“ I see the light — from the direction of the doctor,” 
whispered Fordyce huskily. 

229 


THE MIND-READER 


Dr. Wycherley turned in his chair. A faint phos- 
phorescent glow was visible in the depths of darkness 
behind him. It seemed to spread out in rippling waves, 
and then to die slowly away. 

“ They are approaching,” said the Signora rever- 
ently. “ Let us prepare our minds to receive their mes- 
sage.” 

For a quarter of an hour utter silence, utter dark- 
ness reigned. Then quite suddenly something in metal 
touched Dr. Wycherley on the shoulder and clattered to 
the floor. 

“ Some spirit wishes to speak to you,” said the Sig- 
nora. “ Do not be afraid. Pick up the horn and put 
it to your ear.” 

Dr. Wycherley, to give an unprejudiced trial to the 
seance, groped for and picked up the metal horn, and 
placed it to his ear. 

“ What do you hear? ” asked Fordyce presently. 

“ Only a sea-shell murmur from the air-currents in 
the horn.” 

“ Listen carefully,” advised the Signora. “ There 
may be a message for you from some dear one.” 

“ I hear nothing beyond the sea-shell murmur.” 

“ Then place the horn in the middle between us, and 
we will wait again for the will of the spirits. It is diffi- 
cult for them to communicate with us — very difficult. 
We must have patience.” 

Dr. Wycherley obeyed, and again there ensued a 
long spell of that will-enslaving silence. 

Then the horn touched Fordyce on the shoulder. 

230 


FROM THE OTHER WORLD 


He picked it up and placed it to his ear, waiting eagerly 
for the whispered word. 

“ Who is it? ” they heard him ask of the darkness, 
with a wondrous tenderness in his voice. 

“ Is it Eithne ? . . . Do you know who is speaking 
to you? . . . Yes, my darling, it is Dearheart. Have 
you some message for me? . . . Our holiday in Galway? 
Yes, yes, I remember. How could I forget it? . . . 
When the tide trapped us amongst the rocks. Yes, yes. 
Tell me what I said to you. . . . My Eithne ! Oh, my 
darling wife! Tell me more — tell me more! ... I 
can’t hear now — your voice is so faint. ... I can’t 
hear. ...” 

And after an acute silence : “ She has gone ! ” 

“ I do not think we shall receive any more to-night,” 
said the Signora, and presently she rose to light the 
candles. 


CHAPTER XXII 


BREAKING THE CHAINS 


W ELL,” said Fordyce eagerly, when they were 
again in their gondola. “ Are you satisfied, 
Doctor? ” 

“ I am completely satisfied,” returned Dr. Wycher- 
ley significantly. 

“ Then you believe at last? ” 

“ First answer me this : you claim that the horn was 
raised from the ground by spirit agency and not by a 
human hand? That the scent and the phosphorescent 
light were not the result of human agency? ” 

“ I do ! ” replied Fordyce. His every feature con- 
veyed his intense belief in the reality of the seance. 
“ That scent was hawthorn — hers, her favourite scent. 
The voice was hers — the every inflexion was as she used 
to speak to me. And what she whispered was only 
known in detail to us two. No one else on earth could 
possibly have known the very words I said to her when 
we were trapped by the tide on that Galway coast. 
What more complete proof could one ask for? ” 

Dr. Wycherley sickened as he realised the utter 
meanness of the medium’s trafficking with a man’s most 
sacred feelings. As Mrs. Fordyce had said, her son 
was rapidly becoming obsessed by this communing in the 
darkness. The Signora had him definitely in her vel- 
232 


BREAKING THE CHAINS 


vety clutch ; what her next move would be was not diffi- 
cult to guess. So far she had been shrewd enough to 
keep the money side in the background, but presently, 
when the hook was ineradicably fixed in her victim . . . ! 

“ It is no proof at all,” ahswered Dr. Wycherley 
gently. 

“No proof! You mean to imply that there was 
some trick used? You mean that the Signora could 
have spoken the words which came from my dead wife? 
Words known only to Eithne and myself? Oh, you 
scientific sceptics are too impossible ! ” 

“ There was no trick used in that,” replied the 
doctor evenly. 

“ Then what is your accusation ? ” 

“ Merely an elementary mind phenomenon, which 
you mistake for a voice from the other world. An illu- 
sion of the senses.” 

“ Prove it ! ” cried Fordyce heatedly. 

“ I will certainly prove it. To-morrow, at midday, 
in your own room, without any of the meretricious trap- 
pings of the seance. We will come back from the outer 
darkness to the wholesome light of day.” 

“ How? ” 

“ You will see to-morrow, if you are open to obey 
my instructions,” said the doctor firmly, and would give 
no further detail of his plan. 

Fordyce meditated in angry silence during the rest 
of the journey home. The call of his dead wife was 
still ringing in his ears against the cold scepticism of 
the scientist. 

“ Dearheart ! ” she had whispered. 

233 


THE MIND-READER 


* * * * * * * 

At midday the doctor and Fordyce were alone in the 
latter’s sitting-room. The doctor had drawn the blinds 
to screen off the full blaze of the sun, and had arranged 
an easy chair, in which he invited Fordyce to place him- 
self. 

The poet did so reluctantly. 

44 Is this to be some hypnotic trick ? 99 he asked. 

44 Nothing of the kind,” replied the mental healer 
gently, passing over the implied accusation. 44 1 merely 
wish you to be comfortable and to let your thoughts 
centre on your memories of the past. Rest in this chair 
for half-an-hour. I will leave you alone and return 
later.” 

At the end of half-an-hour the doctor entered the 
room quietly with a large curved sea-shell in his hand. 

44 Hold this to your ear,” he said, 44 and rest peace- 
fully.” 

He withdrew to a corner of the room away from the 
poet’s line of sight, and sat down to wait. 

Ten minutes had perhaps elapsed when Fordyce 
spoke out with a tense eagerness in his voice. 

44 Is it you — is it you, Eithne? . . . Yes, I am here, 
next to you. Speak your heart to me, dearest! . . . 
Do I remember the farmhouse on the Galway coast? 
Yes, yes! . . . The little lamb we found on the moun- 
tainside and brought home with us — yes, yes ! . . . Oh, 
Eithne, how your voice thrills me ! Tell me more ! . . . 
If those days could only come back again ! You won’t 
leave me, dearest, will you? Come to my bedside every 
night and speak to me as you are speaking now. . . #i 
234 


BREAKING THE CHAINS 


What keeps you from me? . . .1 don’t understand. I 
can’t hear what you are saying. . . . Your voice is so 
faint now. ...” 

There was silence, and then Fordyce rose brusquely 
from his chair. His eyes were alight with joy as he 
faced the doctor. 

“ She came to me ! ” he cried. 

Dr. Wycherley shook his head gently. “ What you 
have heard was the echo of your own memories. Your 
temperament is very highly strung, and you have the 
power of projecting spoken memories into the shell just 
as many other people have the power of projecting their 
visual memories into a crystal.” 

“ I tell you it was her very voice ! ” 

“ A vivid echo of memory. Come, Fordyce, you 
must face realities.” The doctor laid a kindly hand 
on his shoulder. “ I know that I am harrowing your 
feelings with this normal explanation of your experi- 
ences. But I am doing it for your own sake — and for 
the sake of your mother. The dead have their claims 
upon us, but the claims of the living are greater. . . . 
Your mother.” 

Fordyce moved over to his desk and took up a photo- 
graph. “ I won’t believe it ! ” he flung over his shoul- 
der. “ Do you want to take from me my one joy of 
existence, my one hope? To know her presence is with 
me ; to have her help in all my problems of life ; to speak 
with her constantly without a barrier between us. It 
must come slowly, as the Signora says, but it will come ! 
Complete communion ! ” There was rapture in his 
voice. 

235 


THE MIND-READER 


Dr. Wycherley realised that he, as well as Mrs. 
Fordyce, was powerless against the subtle influence of 
the Signora. She seemed to have coiled her will around 
that of Norman Fordyce. Only one course remained, 
if Fordyce were to be saved from the mental breakdown 
which the doctor clearly foresaw. That course was to 
go straight to the Franchini woman and try to buy 
her off. 

With a blank cheque in his pocket-book, the doctor 
took gondola to the dead palace where the Signora 
had her present dwelling. She received him with the 
mark of graciousness of a thorough woman of the world, 
and for some little time they interchanged the conven- 
tional nothings that correspond to the elaborate cour- 
tesies of two rapier opponents. Finally the doctor 
steered the conversation round to the object of his visit. 

44 1 have been demonstrating a little psychological 
experiment to Mr. Fordyce,” he said. 44 1 have been 
repeating for him, in daylight and in his own room, the 
echo of memory phenomenon which occurred here last 
night.” 

The Signora’s eyes narrowed. 

44 Continue,” was her only comment. 

44 He is largely convinced.” 

44 Of whM? ” 

44 That it is a phenomena with an entirely normal 
explanation.” 

44 Indeed? ” 

44 1 want you to help me to complete the proof. Of 
course I recognise that such a service on your part 
would call for a substantial recognition.” 


BREAKING THE CHAINS 


“ Please put your meaning more plainly.” 

“ I want to offer you now such a sum as would only 
come to you very gradually from Mr. Fordyce, even if 
he were to continue to seek your services as a medium. 
A present certainty in place of a future uncertainty.” 

“ A bribe ! ” was the Signora’s scornful comment. 

With that tone of scorn, the key to the situation lay 
in Dr. Wycherley’s grasp. Her object lay beyond 
money. This woman wanted more than Fordyce’s 
money . . . then she must want Fordyce himself. 

But how was this possible — seeing that his devotion 
to his dead wife was of the very fibre of his being? 

And then, from his wonderful store of knowledge of 
the mental cases of the whole world, there came to Dr. 
Wycherley the remembrance of a parallel case he had 
read of in an obscure Russian journal of psychology. 
A strange, fantastic, almost unbelievable case. But 
what had happened once might happen again. 

The doctor gave no outward sign of what was pass- 
ing through his thoughts. With seemingly short- 
sighted obstinacy he pressed the money offer, produced 
his blank cheque and a fountain pen ready to fill it in, 
and received a crushing refusal and an unmistakable 
hint to terminate his visit. 

He took his departure, and returned direct to For- 
dyce, whom he found deep in meditation. 

“ I want to ask you one very personal question,” he 
said. “ Do not answer it unless you choose to do so.” 

“ Ask it,” replied Fordyce listlessly. 

“ Has the Signora ever made evident her infatuation 
for you? ” 


237 


THE MIND-READER 


Fordyce answered with an indignant denial. 

“ She will,” affirmed the doctor. 

“ Out of the question ! ” 

“ Suppose . . . suppose she were to claim that your 
dead wife were becoming materialised in herself — and 
that the soul of Eithne Fordyce was being reincarnated 
in the body of Signora Franchini? Would you believe 
such a claim? ” 

Fordyce stared at him speechlessly. 

“ That is the warning I have to give you,” pursued 
the mental healer with deep earnestness. “ Continue 
with your seances if you feel that they are leading you 
to a higher plane. But if the Signora should broach 
such a suggestion — as I believe she will, very gradually, 
very subtly — then remember that I gave you warning. 
Let that be the test of the quagmire I fear.” 

******* 

It was some four months later that Dr. Wycherley 
again met Mrs. Fordyce and her son. The change in 
Norman was patent — he seemed revivified to new energy 
and new enthusiasm. 

“ You are wonderful,” said Mrs. Fordyce to the 
mental healer. 

“ You have given me back my son. But how did 
you bring it about? He always refuses to tell me just 
why he broke off abruptly with his seances. They con- 
tinued after you left Venice, but a fortnight later Nor- 
man suddenly took a strong dislike to them and an- 
nounced his intention never to touch spiritism again. 
238 


BREAKING THE CHAINS 


He said it was primarily due to you. But how was it 
brought about? ” 

Dr. Wycherley shook his head kindly but firmly. 

“ If your son does not wish to tell you,” he answered, 
“ I fear you must not ask the solution from me.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE HOUR OF ELEVEN 

I T was on his way back from Madrid, where he had 
been called into consultation over a mental case 
in the family of the Minister of Justice — a case 
important in itself but not specially novel or interesting 
to record — that Dr. Wycherley had stopped at Barce- 
lona to look up an old acquaintance of his in the person 
of Superintendent Brennan. 

Brennan, late of Scotland Yard, had been appointed 
by the Spanish Government to a specially-created police 
post at Barcelona in order to put down for them the 
anarchist element in that turbulent city. Barcelona 
with its surrounding province of Catalonia is the Ireland 
of Spain — distinct in character, aims and aspirations 
from every other part of the kingdom, always in covert 
or seething opposition to the central government. 
Brennan had had to work with the iron fist, and inside 
six months he was the best-hated man in the city. 

The mental healer had called upon him in order to 
hear how he was progressing in his dangerous new post, 
and by way of answer the police officer had passed over 
to him a note written in the dialect of the province and 
signed with eleven red stars. In translation it ran : 
240 


THE HOUR OF ELEVEN 


Eleven o’clock of the night is the hour we have fixed 
upon. Guard yourself as you will, that hour will be 
fatal for you. We strike in the ways you least expect ! 
* * * * * 

(Signed) * 

* * * * # 

44 Melodramatic beggars, aren’t they? ” said Bren- 

nan, with a lightness in his voice that did not ring quite 
unforced. 

Dr. Wycherley examined the note with deep concen- 
tration, while the police officer lay back in his armchair 
and gently stroked his pet cat curled up on his knees 
and purring in sleepy contentment. This was the fa- 
mous Charles, the one-time mascot of Scotland Yard, 
which Brennan had taken with him as a companion to 
his new sphere of work in Barcelona. 

The handwriting of the note was thin, jerky and 
ill-controlled. 

44 A fanatic’s writing,” commented Dr. Wycherley, 
and closed his eyes in order to sense its inner meaning 
more vividly. 44 This is not an idle threat. ... I feel 
the intensity of hatred underneath it. . . . The man is 
burning for revenge.” 

44 There are eleven of them apparently,” replied 
Brennan, referring to the point that each star of the 
signature was in a different hand. 

44 Yes, but the central star carries to me the most 
vivid sensations of hatred. That man is dangerous — 
the others are merely his tools.” 

44 They’re a cowardly crew — these Spanish anarch- 
ists,” said Brennan. 44 And yet ” — he lowered his 
241 


THE MIND-READER 

■ — — jj 

voice, and the forced lightness had died out of his 

tones — 46 and yet they are beginning to get on my 
nerves a little. I wouldn’t say this to anybody but 
yourself.” 

The mental healer had the very rare gift of inspir- 
ing confidences ; there was that in his personality which 
made people trust in his discretion without hesitancy. 

The police officer continued : 44 That note reached 
me a week ago. None of my men can trace who wrote 
it or who posted it. I’ve put out some pretty strenu- 
ous enquiries, as you may imagine, but I can’t get the 
writer. . . . Since I received it, eleven P. M. has cer- 
tainly been a not too pleasant hour for me. About 
eleven on Tuesday night, when a strong north-easter 
was blowing, I was out in the town and had two big 
tiles miss me by a fraction of an inch. That may have 
been mere coincidence. But Thursday night about 
eleven I was fired on from an empty house; Saturday 
night about eleven I was just in time to discover a time- 
controlled bomb under my bed and throw it into my 
water-jug.” 

His eye involuntarily went up to the clock on his 
study mantelpiece, a large presentation clock. It was 
marking half past ten. 44 It’s now Monday night,” said 
Brennan, 44 and probably something else in the way of a 
stab in the back is waiting for me at eleven.” 

Struck by a sudden thought, he jumped up brusque- 
ly — upsetting the sleeping Charles — and rushing to the 
mantelpiece began very cautiously to open the works. 
But there was no infernal machine concealed inside it, 
and the police officer returned to his chair with apologies. 
242 


THE HOUR OF ELEVEN 


46 Excuse *me. This kind of life makes one nervy. , 
One doesn’t know what coward’s trick they’ll try next. 
It’s much easier to protect other people than to protect 
oneself. . . ; Charles, come here ! ” 

But the cat, grievously offended at the brusque up- 
setting, stalked off to an open window and made his way 
into the night. 

44 That eleven o’clock device is the scheme of an 
educated man — a man of refinement,” said Dr. Wycher- 
ley, again studying the note signed with the eleven stars. 

Brennan looked up sharply, and then nodded assent. 
44 That’s right! If I could get a line on the man! . . ., 
But wouldn’t it be possible for you to — what’s the word?, 
— psychometrise him from that note? ” 

44 That is exactly what I have been trying to do,” 
returned the mental healer. 44 But the note is not suffi- 
ciently fresh. I merely get the sensation of burning 
revenge underlying it. If only — ” He paused, deep 
in thought. 

44 Yes?” 

44 If only I could obtain some object he has handled 
quite recently, it might be possible.” 

44 The Saturday night bomb has been destroyed,” 
said Brennan regretfully. 44 Or it might have helped 
you.” 

44 Most probably it was placed in your room by one 
of his confederates — one of the ten other stars of the 
signature — and in that case it would have been useless 
for the purpose.” 

Brennan went over to a sideboard and unlocked it 

243 


THE MIND-READER 


with a Yale key. As he produced a decanter of whisky 
and a gasogene he remarked significantly : “ I usually 
take a nightcap before going to bed, and I keep the ap- 
paratus under lock and key. That’s one danger the 
less.” 

Finding the gasogene nearly empty, he re-filled it 
with water from a water-bottle also kept in the locked 
cupboard, and then looked around for sparklets of com- 
pressed gas. Apparently he had run out of them, and 
so he rang for his English housekeeper and had her 
bring him a fresh box from the store-cupboard. 

Breaking the wrapping of the cardboard box, he 
took out one of the steel sparklet bulbs and inserted it 
in the gasogene. The water bubbled violently as it be- 
came charged with the gas released from the metal bulb. 

Brennan poured himself out a stiff whisky and soda. 
“ I know that I needn’t ask you to join me,” he said, 
and raised the glass to his lips. 

With a sudden lithe movement most unexpected in 
an old man, Dr. Wycherley sprang up from his chair 
and dashed the glass away from the superintendent’s 
lips. 

“ Look at that brownish vapour in the gasogene ! 
It means released nitrous oxide. ...” 

“ . . . and poison in the sparklet,” finished Brennan 
grimly, setting his square jaws even squarer. “The 
box was bought in Barcelona. Inside ten minutes we’ll 
have that chemist in handcuffs.” 

He turned to a desk telephone and rung up sharply. 

* * * * * * * 


244 


THE HOUR OF ELEVEN 


After twelve hours of repeated questioning inside 
prison walls — questioning conducted by the Spanish 
police with no gentle hand— they could get nothing of 
value out of the unfortunate chemist from whose shop 
the box of sparklets had been bought. 

The box had been sold a week ago ; by his new as- 
sistant ; he himself was not in the shop at the time ; the 
new assistant had left suddenly ; the name was Fernan- 
dez and the address he gave was Calle de los Cuarto 
Amigos, 62 ; he himself was known to be a staunch loyal- 
ist all his life and a most respectable householder; he 
knew nothing about the box beyond the cash book entry 
that it was sold; not if they imprisoned him for life 
could he tell them more than he was telling them now; 
etc., etc. 

The address of the assistant of course turned out a 
false one; the description of him was inadequate for 
identification in a large city such as Barcelona ; in brief, 
the trial proved itself a cul de sac. 

The evening after the frustrated poisoning, Brennan 
and the doctor were again in the former’s study. Bren- 
nan was pacing up and down, his brows furrowed with 
deep thought, while Charles, from the hearthrug, looked 
up at his master with the half-closed, watchful eyes of 
the cat. 

Brennan stopped suddenly in his pacing. “ Doc- 
tor,” said he with deep feeling, “ you must go. Barce- 
lona is not safe for any friend of mine. They may get 
me any day now. If it’s a bomb, that will mean general 
destruction, and anyone who’s with me will get hurt or 
killed. You’d better leave Barcelona by the midnight 
245 


THE MIND-READER 


express for Port Vendres and French soil ; there’s more 
than an hour to catch your train.” 

Dr. Wycherley, for repty, said briefly, “ Hold out 
your arm.” 

The police officer, though wondering at the request, 
did so. 

“ See,” said the doctor, “ how the pulse is shaking 
your fingers. No,” he added quickly, “ don’t think 
that I imagine you afraid of these anarchists. It means 
that you are not in good bodily condition; that the 
several attempts on your life have affected your nerves ; 
that at this time particularly you need an Englishman 
by your side. So I remain — until you have settled with 
the man of the red star.” 

“ But this is police work ! ” protested Brennan. “ I 
appreciate your pluck immensely, Doctor, but you’re 
not a young man, and — ” He hesitated and broke 
off, wishing above all to avoid hurting the doctor’s feel- 
ings. 

Dr. Wycherley smiled. “ That is such a narrow, 
professional way of looking at the problem. As I see 
it, from the outside point of view, police guards are not 
going to help you greatly. You are fighting an excep- 
tional man — a man of brains and refinement — and these 
Spanish police proceed as if they were dealing with 
some common workman.” 

The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven, and as 
the chimes carried through the room the two men, actu- 
ated by the same thought, listened intently in silence for 
what might follow. 

Brennan at length picked up the broken thread of 

246 


THE HOUR OF ELEVEN 


conversation : 44 It’s good of you, Doctor — I appreciate 
it immensely. For to-night at least I ought to be safe. 
The house has been searched from garret to cellar — 
every nook and cranny. I’ve got men posted all round- 
If anyone gets through the cordon it will either be by 
treachery on the part of my men or by a miracle. . . . 
Great heavens ! ” he broke off. 44 What’s the matter 
with Charles ? ” 

The cat had risen from the hearthrug and with head 
thrown back was snarling and spitting venomously at, 
apparently, nothing. Strange detail: its eyes, though 
wide open, were fixed in a glazed stare as if they were 
blinded. 

For a moment a shiver went through Brennan’s 
broad frame at this uncanny sight. 44 He’s seeing 
ghosts ! ” he cried. And then, pulling himself together : 
44 Charles ! Charles ! Lie down. Back to your rug, 
sir.” 

The cat turned its head towards the voice, like a 
blinded animal, and with a furious bound leapt in the 
direction of Brennan, claws wide and angry. 

Brennan dodged it by an inch or so, but the cat 
turned in its leap and made back for him. A second 
leap, and its open claws would have been into him, had 
not the doctor pushed over a small table in the nick of 
time and caught its leap in mid-air. 

44 He’s mad ! ” cried Brennan, and snatching up a 
poker stunned the animal into insensibility. 44 What- 
ever can have happened to the cat? ” 

Dr. Wycherley was tying its legs together with a 
handkerchief. He did not answer for a few moments, 

m 


THE MIND-READER 


but cautiously bent down to get the odour of the cat’s 
breath. 

“ Cannabis indica,” he replied. “ Indian hemp. 
Someone must have given it a dose early in the evening.” 

“ The red star man.” 

“ Probably.” 

“ So that it would turn mad and fly at me ? ” 

Dr. Wycherley bent closer over the unconscious ani- 
mal. “ I get traces of another odour like bitter al- 
monds. That would be cyanide. Yes, the claws have 
been dipped in cyanide. If it had scratched you ” 

“ Good God ! What a devilish scheme ! ” 

“ That man must have had the cat in his hands 
sometime this evening,” pursued the doctor, with the 
zeal of the scientist lighting up his countenance. “ Just 
what we were wanting for the psychometric experience 
— something that he had recently handled! Splendid, 
splendid! Now I’ll try to get an impression of his ap- 
pearance.” 

Brennan looked in amazement at Dr. Wycherley. 
He did not understand the scientific temperament, and 
the way in which it would override all ordinary feelings. 
For the moment Dr. Wycherley had completely forgot- 
ten that the murder of his friend had just been frus- 
trated by a hair’s breadth; his thoughts were centred 
on the possibilities of his experiment. For the moment 
he was the embodiment of the professional experimenter. 

Lifting the cat up, he laid it on Brennan’s desk, and 
making sure that the legs of the animal were securely 
tied against any movement on awakening, proceeded to 
248 


THE HOUR OF ELEVEN 


lay hands upon it with closed eyes, deep in concentra- 
tion. 

Presently his left hand stole towards a scrap of 
paper on the desk, and Brennan, guessing at his wish, 
passed over a pencil. 

Dr. Wycherley said not a word, but his left hand 
began to trace on the paper lines and shadings that 
presently developed into the sketch of a man with a 
short dark beard and deep-set, fanatical eyes. A scar 
ran on his forehead from the left eyebrow to the line 
of the thick, dark hair, diagonally. 

Brennan, watching with keen intensity, clenched his 
fist triumphantly. 

“ I know that man ! Luiz Arrida. He’s a lawyer 
of the city, and has always been reckoned as a loyalist. 
I’ve actually worked on committees with him. I’ll have 
him arrested at once.” 

66 No,” said Dr. Wycherley, sharply, as Brennan 
laid hands on the telephone. 

The police officer paused in surprise. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


AFTERMATH OF REVENGE 

I T had taken long argument before the doctor had 
convinced his friend of the essential logic of the 
extraordinary course of action he proposed. 
Brennan, with a life service in the police behind him, 
was naturally inclined to the routine procedure of ar- 
rest and public trial and an object-lesson to the revo- 
lutionaries. He ignored the fact that many such ob- 
ject-lessons had been demonstrated in the courtyard of 
the grim prison fortress of Montjuich, and yet had only 
served to throw fuel on the fires of hatred. 

“ This Luiz Arrida is an exceptional man,” the 
mental healer had urged. “ Let us deal with him in an 
exceptional way — the psychological way.” 

Keen discussion had taken place over the general 
plan and then over the details, but eventually Brennan 
accepted the strange experiment, more on the weight of 
Dr. Wycherley’s personality than on any conviction of 
success. In the early hours of the morning the police 
officer wrote and posted off a letter to Senor Luiz Ar- 
rida, asking him to call that afternoon to take directions 
for the drafting of a will. Since Brennan intended to 
settle on Spanish soil, the letter explained, he judged it 
desirable to have a will drawn up according to the Span- 
ish legal formalities. 


250 


AFTERMATH OF REVENGE 


When at his office desk Arrida opened his morning’s 
mail and read this letter, his first feeling was a grim 
and silent amusement. So Brennan intended to settle 
on Spanish soil? Perhaps he would do so in a sense 
far removed from his intention. It made a pretty jest. 

Then came suspicion of the letter. Was it some 
trap? Well, in that case there would be an automatic 
pistol in his pocket, and some lively shooting. 

But the dominant feeling was a burning hatred of 
this Englishman who had come to smash an iron fist into 
the revolutionaries, the patriots of Catalonia. He, 
Senor Luiz Arrida, was the instrument of God designed 
to drive the Englishman back to his own land. The 
scar on his forehead flushed a dull red with the uncon- 
trollable anger surging through his veins. Perhaps 
that afternoon’s meeting might show him some new way 
to accomplish his purpose. 

Yes, he would certainly obey the call. 

As he drove in his smart motor-car through the 
broad central streets of modern Barcelona, slashed yel- 
low and purple with the flooding sunlight on the stone 
walls of substantial modern business houses, he fingered 
an automatic pistol in his coat pocket. It was one of 
those deadly miniature weapons that spit out ten shots 
in a few seconds. If a finger were laid on him while 
in the house of the police Commandant, he would deal 
out death in an instant. 

Under the dark archway that led to the patio , Ar- 
rida pulled a bell that clanged echoingly down cool stone 
corridors. For a moment only he had a chill of mis- 
giving at this venturing into the house of his enemy, 
251 


THE MIND-READER 


but quickly reflected that Brennan could scarcely have 
connected him with an anarchist organisation. 

Besides, he had his automatic pistol with him ready 
for instant use. 

Arrida was shown by the manservant into the cool 
shadows of the patio, where lounge chairs stretched in- 
vitingly under blossoming orange trees odorous with 
scent. To his surprise, he was received by Dr. Wycher- 
ley, who introduced himself and offered the visitor a 
chair. 

44 The Senor Commandant will be here presently, 
will he not? ” asked Arrida. 44 No doubt he has been 
taking a long siesta.” 

44 He is dead,” answered the mental healer very sim- 
ply, while his grave dark eyes read deep into the soul 
of the lawyer. 

Elation, misgiving, triumph, curiosity — all these 
buzzed through Arrida’s brain before the conventional 
answer framed itself on his lips : 44 1 am extremely 
grieved to hear it. He was a capable officer and very 
courageous — a great help to the Government in the 
quieting of the city. Yes, I am particularly sorry to 
hear of his death. It must have been very sudden ? ” 

44 He died this morning. There was an attack made 
on him by his pet cat — it went suddenly mad and flew 
at him. The scratches became poisoned in some man- 
ner.” 

44 Madre de Dios ! What a strange end! ” 

44 The news is being kept very quiet until his succes- 
sor is appointed,” continued Dr. Wycherley. 44 They 
have telegraphed to London this morning, and a reply 
252 


AFTERMATH OF REVENGE 


is being awaited. They have offered the post to another 
famous Scotland Yard man.” 

Arrida was profoundly startled. He had not reck- 
oned before on such a probability. Surely no man in 
his senses would take up Brennan’s post after what had 
happened during the past days? And yet, with these 
mad Englishmen, one never knew what to expect. 

“ I am telling you all this,” pursued the doctor, “ be- 
cause we can trust in your discretion.” 

“Naturally, naturally! This terrible affair has 
greatly shocked me. Is there nothing I can do? ” 

“ If there is any legal formality in which you can 
help us ? ” 

“ Certainly ! With the greatest pleasure ! ” 

“ Mr. Brennan has been laid out on the couch in a 
room adjoining. Would you care to see him? ” 

For a moment a gleam lighted up the eye of the 
fanatic, but he regained his mask and answered with a 
conventional, " I should be glad to see the Senor Bren- 
nan once again.” 

In a room with close drawn curtains Brennan lay 
on a couch covered with a white sheet. Dr. Wycherley 
led his visitor into the room, and reverently turned back 
the sheet to uncover the face. It was white and stiff 
and motionless. 

Then he asked quietly : “ Shall I leave you with 
him?” 

The lawyer nodded assent, his words sticking in his 
throat unuttered, and Dr. Wycherley withdrew to leave 
a murderer and his victim alone. 

It was a strange whirl of human emotion that eddied 

253 


THE MIND-READER 


in that darkened silent room after the mental healer 
had left, closing the door behind him. Arrida’s veins 
surged with the passion of triumph as he looked on the 
still white face of the man he had done to death. 
Hatred satisfied to the ultimate end — he had the cup of 
satisfaction filled for him to the brim. He sipped at it 
lovingly, gloatingly, as he looked on his victim with 
the eyes of a fanatic. 

For a moment he stood motionless drinking in the 
atmosphere of revenge accomplished. 

Then he moved forward to place a hand of triumph 
on the dead man’s face, but before the body he checked 
himself with a shiver of superstition. Some day, in an- 
other world, he would have to answer for that crime 
before One to whom nothing was hidden. To touch the 
dead man would, according to the superstitious working 
of his mind, add to his crime. 

His diabolical scheme of the maddened cat and the 
poisoned claws had succeeded, and now . . . Yes, and 
now? Brennan was dead, and they had wired to Lon- 
don for another Brennan to take his place. 

The same work to do all over again ! The thought 
came to him with a sudden brusque burr of disgust. As 
Dr. Wycherley had sensed, Arrida was a man of edu- 
cation and refinement, and the reaction after sated re- 
venge came upon him with a sensation almost of nausea. 
Brennan had been “ stabbed in the back,” in unfair 
fight, and the anarchist organisation would expect Ar- 
rida to deal with Brennan’s successor in the same way. 

It was slimy work ! 

Involuntarily he wiped his hands on his handker- 

254 


AFTERMATH OF REVENGE 


chief. He found that they were clammy with sweat, 
and a stinging realisation came to him of the silent 
revolt of the body against the deed it had carried out 
at the bidding of his will. He had had revenge in full, 
and now it nauseated him. He dropped on his knees 
and began to pray. 

It was thus that Dr. Wycherley found him as he 
entered noiselessly with an open telegram in his hand, 
and he knew by the head bent in genuine supplication 
what must be the dominant feeling now in the murderer’s 
mind. 

Arrida started as though caught in some guilty 
action, but recovered his composure in an instant and 
rose quietly to his feet after a few moments. 

“ Well? 99 he asked, with the look directed at the 
open telegram. 

Dr. Wycherley handed it to him. “ As you will see, 
the offer has been accepted, Mr. Brennan’s successor is 
ready to take up the post in a fortnight’s time.” 

Lawyer-like, Arrida was carefully examining the 
telegram, but there was no suspicion under his auto- 
matic action. The telegram was perfectly genuine, and 
he realised that with these mad Englishmen no other 
result could be expected. If one of them were killed 
off, another could always be found to take his place. 

Dr. Wycherley had moved over to the body to put 
the sheet back over the face. He gave a sudden ex- 
clamation of surprise. 

“ What is it? ” asked Arrida sharply, and his hand 
went towards his hip-pocket. 

255 


THE MIND-READER 


“ There is colour coming slowly into the face. I 
feel a return of the pulse. Quick, call the household ! ” 
******* 

Half an hour later, when Brennan had been put to 
bed and was apparently on his way to a marvellous re- 
covery, Arrida proposed to take his departure. The 
matter of drafting out a will could of course wait a day 
or two. 

But Dr. Wycherley drawing him aside, asked for a 
few moments’ private conversation, and led the w r ay to 
the darkened room where the body had been laid out a 
short time before. 

The lawyer, though keenly suspicious of a trap, 
followed the mental healer and took the chair as re- 
quested. 

“ To begin with,” said Dr. Wycherley quietly, “ I 
am an old man and unarmed. Nor are there any 
watchers of this room.” 

“ I fail to understand,” answered Arrida coldly. 

“ I mean that there will be no necessity to draw 
that weapon from your pocket.” 

The lawyer remained silent. 

“ I know, of course, the share you have had in the 
administration of cannabis indica to Mr. Brennan’s pet 
cat. I also know of . . . No,” he added quickly, 
“ please don’t think that I place myself in any judicial 
capacity. In fact, I have advised the Commandant 
to take no action against you, of any kind. He has ac- 
cepted my advice.” 

The lawyer rose to his feet. “ This conversation is 
meaningless to me. Explain yourself, Senor Doctor! ” 
256 


AFTERMATH OF REVENGE 


Dr. Wycherley shook his head gently. “ Let me 
repeat again that you are free to go when and how you 
will. There will be no proceedings taken against you. 
Tell me this, if I am wrong in my deductions, why did I 
find you a little while ago on your knees praying to your 
Maker to forgive you your crime of murder? ” 

He fixed his keen searching eyes on the lawyer, and 
the latter quivered involuntarily at the truth of what 
he was hearing. 

“ You have escaped that crime by what seems a 
miracle. And you are glad ! Your better self had re- 
volted! When you stood in this darkened room alone 
with your victim, what was your ultimate thought — 
satisfaction or remorse? ” 

Arrida had sunk to his seat again and one hand 
was twitching nervously at a loose thread on his coat 
sleeve. He uttered not a word. 

66 You have learnt a great truth,” pursued the men- 
tal healer earnestly. “ That there is no satisfaction in 
revenge. That revenge accomplished turns bitter in 
the mouth. Have I not read your innermost thoughts ? ” 
“ You are a strange man,” answered Arrida hoarse- 
ly. “ What is it you want from me? ” 

“ Nothing material. I do not ask, I give. All that 
I desire is that you should realise to the full the meaning 
of revenge . If Mr. Brennan is removed, another takes 
his place, as you have seen. What good purpose can it 
serve to plot against his life? ” 

“ The freedom of my country ! ” replied Arrida, 
with sincerity ringing in his voice. 

“ Which you will obtain, if your cause is just, by 

257 


THE MIND-READER 


other and higher means. Assassination is not revolu- 
tion — no one realises that more clearly than yourself. 
Your aim is a noble one, but what of the means you 
have employed? Now give me your hand and tell me 
that when you fight in future, you fight fair.” 

Many had said that there was resistless command in 
the personality of Dr. Wycherley, gentle as his methods 
might be. Here at least it was proved true, for Luiz 
Arrida gave his hand in a silence that was deep with 
sincerity. 

When Arrida had left the house, and Dr. Wycherley 
with a great relief in his heart had returned to the 
Commandant of Police, the latter asked: 

“ What happened while I was in that cataleptic 
trance you put me into? I remember nothing from the 
time you had me under the influence until the time I 
woke up in bed.” 

“What happened?” answered the mental healer 
thoughtfully. “ In brief, the revelation to a man of his 
own soul.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


COURTESAN SANDS 

I N pursuit of his life-passion, the study of the human 
mind, Dr. Wycherley had decided one summer on 
a tramp through Brittany. It is a land of strange 
superstitions — superstitions that reach back through the 
centuries beyond the Christian era and link to-day with 
the age of the Druids and even with the cradle-time of 
the Aryan races. There live in one comer of Brittany 
a people who are as it were an outpost of some Mon- 
gol race, driftwood left behind by some mighty race 
wave of invasion over Europe. In their high, promi- 
nent cheek-bones and close-set eyes, one can read the 
wash of the Tartar blood. In their customs and in 
the strange superstitions they have grafted on to their 
Christian faith, one can divine the remnants of a reli- 
gion five thousand years old. 

To get close to the people he wished to study, Dr. 
Wycherley avoided the towns and the hotels, and 
sought his lodging in wayside farmhouses and fisher- 
men’s cottages. It was thus that he came to stay with 
old Gil Maurtain and his wife and Yvette his grandniece, 
in their cottage by the sands of Plouharaez. 

Six miles across stretch the sands from Cap Plou- 
harnez to the Bee de Pieuvre; and ten miles out they 
259 


THE MIND-READER 


stretch at the lowest spring tide from river-mouth to 
beyond the Rock of the Black Virgin. 

Sands glittering yellow under blaze of sunlight; 
sands golden-orange under slant of sunset; sands glis- 
tening grey under a sky of scurrying, ragged storm- 
clouds ; sands that attune themselves to every mood of 
the heavens ; sands ever changing under the restless 
sweep of the tides and yet ever the same; sands that 
smile to men and lure them and trap them and mock 
them. 

Courtesan sands. 

At full-moon tide the whole sands are clothed with 
the mantle of the ocean, and fishing boats saunter slow- 
ly above them dragging in their wake invisible seine-nets. 
Then the sea will withdraw for mile after mile, unveiling 
the seductive charms of the sands — smooth, glistening, 
sensuous. At full ebb of the spring tides a man may 
walk dryshod the whole ten miles from the shore to 
the Rock of the Black Virgin, if he choose the right 
hours and path, and avoid the trickling sand-streams 
and the treacheries of the known quicksands. Here and 
there over the wide stretch of the sands are lines of thin 
poles which act as landmarks to the fishermen and those 
who drag for eels and crayfish. 

Without such guides, even the shrewdest sandsman 
might fall victim to the clutches of the siren whose bridal 
bed is the quicksand. 

******* 

Dr. Wycherley, with his keen intuitive sense, realised 
from the first evening of his stay with the Maurtains 
that under the placid, somnolent exterior of the cottage 
260 


COURTESAN SANDS 


life there smouldered a drama ready to burst into flame 
at an instant’s notice. He sensed it as vividly as a 
man can sense a coming thunderstorm. On the psychic 
plane, the air was electric. And so he resolved to re- 
main on at the cottage. His help might be needed. 

Old Maurtain was more than agreeable to the ex- 
tension of the doctor’s stay. It meant money, and 
money was the ruling passion of the old sandsman. 
While other passions had burnt themselves out, this one 
had intensified with age. The less he could use money, 
the more he coveted it. 

They were sitting one evening on the wooden seat 
outside the cottage door, waiting the call to supper, 
when the old man suddenly raised a gnarled finger and 
pointed East across the bay. 

“ See you, it has returned,” he exclaimed. 

Dr. Wycherley’s sight was not so keen as the sands- 
man, and it was a little time before he could locate the 
object pointed at — a dark speck flying low across the 
sands against the background of the cliff named the Bee 
de Pieuvre. 

“ An aeroplane.” 

“ A child of the devil,” answered Maurtain, with an 
ugly frown criss-crossing the age-lines on his forehead. 

“ You say it has returned ? ” 

“ It was here in May, two months ago.” 

“ No doubt these sands make an excellent ground 
for trial flights.” 

“ It will bring ill luck upon all of us. I must burn 
a big candle to the Black Virgin.” 

“ You mean at the shrine on the rock yonder? ” 

261 


THE MIND-READER 


“ Yes, the shrine to Notre Dame des Mors. We of 
the sands call her the Black Virgin.” 

<c Who owns this machine ? ” 

“ He is not one of us, but a stranger. He has built 
himself a shed across the bay. He calls himself Andre 
Vic.” 

“ I know the name.” It was that of a young pro- 
fessional aviator who had taken part in the Paris-Rome 
flight — a mechanic rapidly making fame for himself in 
the aeroplane world. 

“ It should not be allowed,” said the old man sul- 
lenly. “ The sands are ours. It will spoil the fishing.” 

“ How? ” 

“ The noise of this devil-bird frightens away the 
fish. They will leave us and find a new home. But be- 
sides that, it is unlucky.” 

Yvette came out of the cottage to tell them of sup- 
per ready. She was scarcely eighteen, lithe and slender, 
contrasting sharply with the other girls of Plouharnez, 
a type somewhat short and stocky. Her finely-spun 
fair hair was gathered demurely under her snowy coif 
like a Quakeress. An artist would have claimed her for 
a model. 

As she came out by the open door, her keen eyes 
sighted the monoplane, now resting motionless on the 
sands across the bay. She said nothing. 

Dr. Wycherley, noting that she saw and yet made 
no comment, sensed some connection with the electric 
restlessness underlying the placid interior of the cottage 
life. 

“ It is an aeroplane,” he ventured. 

262 


COURTESAN SANDS 


“ Yes, monsieur,” answered Yvette without raising 
her eyes to his. 

They went in to their homely supper, and the old 
man asked the blessing of God and of the Black Virgin 
upon the meal. Dr. Wycherley, who respected all re- 
ligions, bowed his head reverently. 

Late that night, when the household should have 
been fast asleep, Dr. Wycherley awaked to a slight noise 
in the room adjoining his. Impelled by a sudden in- 
stinct, he threw aside the bedclothes and went to the 
window. 

Yvette, with a dark cloak thrown round her shoul- 
ders, was lowering herself out of the window of her 
room. She dropped lightly to the ground, and began 
to walk rapidly eastwards along the grass of the fore- 
shore. Presently she turned down to the sands and 
started to cross them in a line for the Bee de Pieuvre. 
Dr. Wycherley watched her until she was lost to view in 
the darkness. 

Now he understood one element in the drama of the 
cottage. 

Yvette was early about the house the next morning, 
at work on her household duties. Although she must 
have walked twelve miles between midnight and dawn, 
to her lover across the sands and back, Dr. Wycherley 
saw in her no signs of fatigue. She was singing softly 
and happily when he came down to breakfast. 

The tide now covered three-quarters of the bay. 
The waters were a-ripple with a gentle breeze from east- 
wards. 

66 1 should like to visit the Rock of the Black Virgin,” 

263 


THE MIXD-READER 


said the doctor to the old sandsman. “ Can I hire a 
boat and someone to accompany me? ” 

“ Certainly, monsieur, that is easily arranged. 
Yvette will take you out to the Rock. There is a good 
sailing breeze, and she handles a boat well.” 

The girl accompanied Dr. Wycherley to the mouth 
of the tidal stream, a mile or so away, where their boat 
was moored to a primitive form of wharf. It was a 
small, stout dinghy with a lugsail. In it the two made 
out by the winding channel of the stream and so on to 
the open waters. In a couple of hours they had reached 
the Rock, and were climbing to the shrine. 

Dr. Wycherley, not usually interested in religious 
emblems except in so far as they bore on his own line 
of study, showed a strong interest in the sculptured fig- 
ure that stood in a niche near the summit of the Rock. 
It was cut from some very hard stone dead-black in col- 
our — a stone quite unlike the grey granite of the rock 
itself and certainly not to be matched in the whole of 
Brittany. Dr. Wycherley knew it for the same stone 
as the mysterious lapis nigra of the Forum at Rome, 
about the origin of which archeologists argue heatedly. 

Even more than the stone itself did the figure inter- 
est the mental healer. The pose was set and formal; 
the face hard and sphinx-like. 

“Do you believe this is a statue of the Virgin 
Mary?” he asked of Yvette. 

“ Of course, monsieur.” 

“ What does the cure of your parish think? ” 

“ He has wanted several times to have it taken away, 
but we of the sands would not let him.” 

264 


COURTESAN SANDS 


“ The face is very cold and hard.” 

“ Now it is so ; but sometimes she smiles.” 

“ Smiles ? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur, when Our Lady wishes to bring 
good fortune to anyone.” The girl began rapidly to 
relate stories of good luck amongst the fisherfolk — a 
record catch, some wreckage washed up on the sands, 
once the actual wreck of a cargo steamer on the Bee de 
Pieuvre. All these she attributed to the influence of 
the Black Virgin. The sincerity of her belief was be- 
yond question. 

“ I will light my uncle’s candle,” continued Yvette, 
“ and perhaps Our Lady will be gracious and smile 
on us.” 

Old Maurtain had given her a candle to burn before 
the shrine. He had been careful to scratch his name 
on it, so that the Black Virgin might know that the of- 
fering was his. Yvette now set the candle in a metal 
casket to one side of and below the figure, and lit it, 
watching the face of the statue intently. 

Against the sunlight the candle struggled feebly, but 
presently a cloud passed over the sun, and in the semi- 
darkness of the niche where the statue was placed the 
candle-light flung sharply on to the face of the Black 
Virgin, altering completely the normal fall of the 
shadows. 

“See, monsieur!” exclaimed the girl joyfully. 

Dr. Wycherley nodded his head in silence. The up- 
flung candle-light had brought a new expression to the 
cold features of the statue — almost a sardonic smile. 
The imagination of the fisherfolk would easily construe 
2G5 


THE MIND-READER 


this to a smile of gracious benediction. There lay the 
power of the statue — in the auto-suggestion it roused in 
the minds of the devotees. Feeling themselves to be 
lucky, it naturally followed that they would put out 
their best exertions — and so “ luck 99 would come to them. 
Dr. Wycherley could easily understand that the cure 
of the parish — and for that matter, even the bishop of 
the diocese — would be powerless against the smile of the 
Black Virgin, this pagan statue from the mists of an- 
tiquity. 

The cloud passed away from the sun, and the fea- 
tures changed back again to the set, sphinx-like expres- 
sion of before. 

As they started to descend the Rock, a faint whir- 
ring noise caused them both to look up to the sky. The 
aeroplane was soaring far above them at a height of sev- 
eral thousand feet. Suddenly the whirring ceased — the 
motor had been shut off. The air-craft dipped sharply 
downwards, and began to descend in a series of spirals. 
It came down until, like a seagull, its feet almost touched 
the water, and then with a rasp the motor came into ac- 
tion and the aviator sped off and upwards, waving his 
hand to the girl on the Rock. 

Yvette waved her handkerchief back to him. 

“ Have you ever been up in the air? ” asked the doc- 
tor. 

“ Once, monsieur,” answered Yvette, with a deep 
blush in her cheeks. “ But my uncle did not like it.” 

“ He is prejudiced against the aeroplane? ” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 


266 


COURTESAN SANDS 


“ And he has other views for your future, has he 
not? ” 

The girl looked startled. “ How did monsieur know 
that ? Did my uncle tell you ? ” 

“ No; but I can sometimes read thoughts.” 

A sudden flaming passion came into Yvette’s eyes. 
“ I hate him! ” she cried. 

“ Your uncle? ” 

“ No, Etienne ! ” 

Dr. Wycherley waited for her to say more, but seem- 
ingly she had repented of her confidence, for she changed 
the subject at once and spoke only of impersonal mat- 
ters. 

When they returned to the cottage, it was to find a 
visitor to table — a powerful, hard-bit, dark-haired man 
of thirty-five or so, with prominent cheek-bones and 
eyes set close together. 

Old Maurtain introduced him as “ my friend, Mon- 
sieur Etienne Concamot.” A patron , he added, mean- 
ing that he was an owner of fishing-boats. 

******* 

The storm was near at hand. 

Dr. Wycherley felt the psychic tension as they sat 
at table. The patron's eyes were constantly on Yvette, 
but the girl avoided his gaze and answered questions 
briefly and in a low voice. 

After the meal, the household were very evidently 
waiting for the doctor to withdraw and leave them to 
themselves, so he took books with him and went out walk- 
ing around the bay. 

Certainly he had no right to interfere in the family 

267 


THE MIND-READER 


affairs of the Maurtains. Yvette must fight her own 
battle against her people. And yet, if there were any 
way in which he could help her . . . 

He felt a sudden desire to see the young aviator face 
to face and judge what kind of man he was. Accord- 
ingly he made for the hamlet near the mouth of the 
stream, and engaged a tumbledown carriage at the inn 
to drive him round to the far side of the bay. 

At the end of a tedious, jolting drive, Dr. Wycher- 
ley found himself at the field where the young aviator 
had built his hangar — a long, low shed in galvanised 
iron. Apparently he lived with his mount, for there 
was no other building near, and a thin curl of smoke 
from a chimney on the tin roof suggested a cooking- 
range somewhere inside. 

Dr. Wycherley traversed the field on foot. Through 
the open door of the hangar he saw two young men in- 
tently at work on the wing of the machine, fitting some 
new stays. 

He watched in silence until one of the men looked 
up abruptly and jerked out: 

“ Who are you? We don’t want any idlers around 
here!” 

The young fellow was clean-shaven, clean-cut in 
feature, brisk and authoritative, and the impression he 
gave to the mental healer was that of a healthy young 
mechanic-athlete very much wrapped up in his work — 
one of the modern, wholesome young Frenchmen so utter- 
ly different from the comic types of the English stage. 

It was not a pleasant welcome, but Dr. Wycherley 
did not resent the words or the tone of voice. This 
268 


COURTESAN SANDS 


young fellow was on his own ground and quite within 
his rights to order any stranger. The doctor replied: 

“ I am a scientist, and I am staying with Gil Maur- 
tain and his wife . . . and Yvette.” 

Something in the tone of Dr. Wycherley’s quiet 
words seemed to appeal to the young man, for he an- 
swered rapidly : 

“ Good. Any friends of theirs are welcome here. 
My brother ” — jerking his hand towards the other man, 
younger than himself and less decided in feature and 
manner. “ Want to see my new flier? ” 

“ I should be very much interested.” 

“ It’s my own design.” He proceeded to expound 
the points of the machine with enthusiasm. 

“ I saw you make a splendid flight this morning. 
You passed very close to me when I was on the Rock of 
the Black Virgin . . . with Yvette.” 

Andre gave a rapid side-glance at the doctor, and 
then called to his brother: 

“ Knock off work and make us some coffee.” 

The brother went off obediently to another room to 
do so. 

“ Dites done , what’s the point of your coming 
here? ” asked the aviator shrewdly of Dr. Wycherley. 

“ I come as a friend of Yvette’s.” 

“ Oh ! ” There was suspicion in his exclamation. 

“ The question I am going to ask is one I have no 
right to ask, and so you need not answer it unless you 
choose to. Do you want to marry Yvette? ” 

“ My God, yes ! ” came the instant response. 

269 


THE MIND-READER 


“ I judged that. Well, you will have to play a 
strong hand.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ There is a determined rival in the field.” 

44 I know.” The young fellow flicked his thumb and 
finger together in contempt. 44 Is that all? ” 

44 That is all — at present .” 

44 What makes you say that? ” 

44 1 feel that — more strongly than words can put it 
— something big is going to happen — suddenly — like the 
bursting of a dam. And I am afraid for little Yvette.” 

Young Yic sobered at this. 44 Will you be staying 
on at the cottage until next week? ” he asked. 

44 Probably.” 

44 Then will you send for me at once if I should be 
wanted? I’ve got to get this flier ready for the West- 
ern Circuit Race. When I’ve won that, I shall take a 
bag full of gold to old Maurtain, and empty it all over 
his table. Then Yvette and I will marry.” 

44 If you were wanted very quickly, it would be 
difficult to let you know in time. There is no telegraph 
or telephone from Cap Plouharnez to here.” 

The young fellow thought this over for some time. 

44 Here’s a plan. I’ll get some rockets from the 
lighthouse, and send them to you at the cottage. If I’m 
wanted in a hurry, you could fire them off.” 

44 Suppose you were asleep at the time? ” 

44 My brother and I take turns in watching through- 
out the night. Otherwise these pigs of ignorant Bretons 
would be wrecking my machine. Myself, I’m from Bur- 
gundy. . . . Besides that, I’ll ask the lighthouse men — 
270 


COURTESAN SANDS 


they’re friends of mine — to keep an eye open and let 
me know if you send up a rocket.” 

With the unconscious selfishness of youth, he had 
been taking the doctor’s interest in his affairs as a mere 
matter of course. Now, however, he seemed to realise 
suddenly that behind Dr. Wycherley’s modest and unas- 
suming exterior was a man of international reputation 
— a big man. Deference came into his voice as he con- 
tinued : 

“ Monsieur, you are very kind to put yourself to 
so much trouble for the sake of Yvette and myself. I 
owe you a thousand thanks. What can I do for you 
in return? Would you like a flight with me into the 
clouds one day? ” 

Dr. Wycherley smiled. “ I am an old man,” he re- 
plied, “ and I have long ago come down from the clouds. 
Earth has more than enough to teach me.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE GREEN FLARE 

T HAT night, old Maurtain was in a state of se- 
cretive excitement. Dr. Wycherley, observing 
him closely, knew that something vital had hap- 
pened during his absence from the cottage that after- 
noon — something connected with the sinister figure of 
Etienne Concarnot. 

Long after his usual bedtime, the sandsman sat 
on the wooden seat outside his cottage, smoking and 
gazing intently over the sands shrouded in the veil of 
the night. Dr. Wycherley, from the window of his 
room above, watched also, but for what he knew not. 

About midnight there came a startled exclamation 
from old Maurtain sitting below on the wooden seat. 
Far out on the sands, at a distance which the darkness 
made impossible to judge with accuracy, flared up a 
vivid grass-green light . . . then died away. 

A footstep sounded near at hand. The voice of 
Etienne Concarnot whispered in triumph: 

“ Thou seest? 99 

“ I see well,” replied Maurtain eagerly. “ Thou 
thinkest it is indeed She ? 99 

“ Who else ? I tell thee that not only did She smile 
but also She raised Her hand and pointed . . . out 
yonder.” 

m 


THE GREEN FLARE 


44 It is wonderful ! ” 

“ My grandfather told me of this. It has been a 
secret in our family. Thou also must keep it secret.” 

44 Indeed, yes.” 

44 Now wait until to-morrow night. At the same 
hour She will again walk the sands.” 

44 Blessed be Her name ! ” 

44 Remember, in what comes of this we share 
equally ! ” 

44 That is well understood.” 

The two men went into the cottage, and their whis- 
pers were lost to Dr. Wycherley. 

The mental healer took pencil and paper, and with 
his left hand began to draw from memory a miniature 
of the Black Virgin, accurate to the smallest detail. He 
enclosed it in an envelope addressed to Professor Clovis 
Marnier of Paris, an archeologist of European reputa- 
tion and a friend of the doctor’s. With the drawing 
went a brief note : 

44 Who or what is this ? Let me know immediately 
by telegram.” 

The next day there came a call for Dr. Wycherley 
which it was impossible for him to shelve. He was 
wanted at Nantes in consultation over a mental case. 
The call had been some days in reaching his present 
address, and accordingly he hastened to Nantes by the 
first train. 

It was very late that evening when a tedious, cross- 
country train landed him back at the nearest station to 
Plouharnez. The dilapidated fly belonging to the local 
inn-keeper jolted him over the rough route communale , 

m 


THE MIND-READER 


through a slowly drizzling rain, to the cottage by the 
sands. There he found a telegram awaiting him in his 
room. It read : 

Undoubtedly statue of Astarte or goddess with sim- 
ilar attributions in later times was considered goddess 
of love but original attribution was goddess of fortune 
human sacrifices were made to win her favour chiefly 
young maidens. — Marnier. 

Goddess of fortune! Was tjhis the key to the mys- 
terious conversation of the night before between Maur- 
tain and the sinister patron of fishing-boats ? 

Dr. Wycherley went down to the living-room of the 
cottage to forage for some supper. Although it was 
very late — past eleven o’clock — both the sandsman and 
his wife were sitting in the room, talking in low, eager 
whispers. At his entrance they ceased abruptly. 

“ A nasty night,” ventured the doctor. 

“ Yes, monsieur,” they agreed. 

“ Can I have some supper? ” 

The wife went to fetch it. 

“ I have bought a little trinket for Yvette,” said 
the doctor presently, as he sat down to table. “ Only 
a trifle, but it may please her. You have no objection 
to her taking it ? ” 

The old dame answered with a new-born self-im- 
portance : “ Ah, monsieur, now we shall be able to buy 
her a gold watch and chain and ” 

Her husband made a warning gesture, and she 
stopped short in her sentence. 

“ You have come into a legacy? ” asked the doctor, 

274 


THE GREEN FLARE 


but the question was only to keep conversation going. 
The realisation had come to him that in some way the 
threatened storm had broken upon the household, and 
he was not listening with the organ of hearing, but — 
if one may strain words — listening with the psychic 
sense, his power of gathering the thought-vibrations of 
others. 

“ Something like that,” was the cautious answer 
of old Maurtain. 

Dr. Wycherley deliberately laid down his knife and 
fork, and with a sudden blaze of white-hot energy flung 
out this question, full into Maurtain’s face: 

“ Where is Yvette ? 99 

The sandsman quivered as though he had received 
an actual blow. 

“ That is not your affair ! ” he retorted with sullen 
suspicion. 

“Where is Yvette?” repeated the doctor imperi- 
ously. 

Involuntarily the old dame turned her head towards 
the window of the living-room. 

“ Out on the sands ! On a black night like this ! 
Do you mean to say that you have sent her out on the 
sands? Why?” 

“ That is not your — ” repeated old Maurtain an- 
grily, but Dr. Wycherley interrupted him with a fire 
of questions : 

“ Out to follow the Black Virgin? Out to the green 
light? Out to the quicksands? 99 

« No, monsieur ! ” answered the wife with real in- 
dignation and at the same time with the deepest con- 
275 


THE MIND-READER 


viction in her voice. “To find the buried treasure 
which Our Blessed Lady will lead her to ! That is why 
Yvette has gone out on the sands ! She will mark the 
spot with a pole, and to-morrow we shall dig up the 
treasure and be rich — very rich — so rich that we 
can ” 

“ You mean that this fellow Concarnot has told you 
to send her? ” 

“ Yes ; he could not go himself, because it is only 
to a young maiden that Our Lady will reveal the 
treasure, so we arranged that Yvette should go with a 
lantern and a long pole ” 

Dr. Wycherley did not wait to hear more. It was 
the time for swift, decisive action. Only two possibili- 
ties could save Yvette from Concarnot’s fiendish re- 
venge of death amongst the quicksands. He must have 
arranged carbide flares to lure her out. The girl was 
going to her death with implicit faith in the guidance 
of the Black Virgin. Only two possibilities could save 
her now: a miracle, or rescue by aeroplane. 

In his room were Vic’s rockets — three of them. He 
brought them down and rapidly set them up in the fore- 
shore in front of the cottage. A sheltered match set 
light to the fuse, and with a roar the rocket shot sky- 
wards and burst out into a drooping pendant of red 
stars, blurred by the drizzle of the night. A second 
followed, and at a few minutes’ interval, a third. 

While Dr. Wycherley questioned and cross-ques- 
tioned the two Maurtains, now thoroughly frightened, 
as to the direction the girl had taken out on the sands 
when she had left the cottage a couple of hours before, 
276 


THE GREEN FLARE 


some of the villagers arrived, panting, in hastily-donned 
clothes, to learn what the firing of the rockets might 
mean. 

Rapidly the doctor organised a search party to fol- 
low her footsteps across the waste of sands, uncovered 
at full ebb. 

A low whirring noise made itself heard, growing 
rapidly louder. 

“ Shout ! ” ordered the doctor. “ Shout all to- 
gether, so that he will know where to land.” 

Presently the rhythmic drone of the Gnome motor 
ceased abruptly; the air-craft planed down, and with 
a jerk hit the sands by the cottage and ran along to a 
stop. 

Andre Vic and his brother jumped off from their 
seats. 

“ What’s the matter? ” shouted Andre through the 
drizzle. 

Dr. Wycherley ran to meet him with a lantern, ex- 
plaining in rapid, terse sentences what the call to action 
meant. 

“ We’ll off to find her — my brother and I ! ” 

“ No, let your brother stay behind. I will come.” 

“ You don’t know the machine.” 

“ But I know where Yvette has gone. I can pilot 
you.” 

It was no time for argument. 

66 Jump in ! ” answered the aviator, pointing to the 
rear seat of the monoplane. 

The younger brother held on to the tail until the 
whirr of the front propeller pulled the machine out of 

m 


THE MIND-READER 


his grasp. Like a swift-running ostrich, the monoplane 
shot along the sands, and then, swaying slightly from 
side to side, slid upwards into the air. 

It was the first time Dr. Wycherley had been in an 
aeroplane. The rush of the air blinded him and deaf- 
ened him and half-choked him. He had to fight for 
balance and breath before he could call into the speak- 
ing-tube a direction for Andre to steer. There were 
only two landmarks to make a course by — the light 
from the Bee de Pieuvre lighthouse, and the vague shape 
of the Rock blurred almost to invisibility in this black 
drizzling night. Dr. Wycherley gave a course which 
was, as best he could judge, the direction of the green 
light he had seen flare up the evening before. It was in 
that direction that old Maurtain, urged by the patron 
of fishing-boats, had sent his grandniece. 

But the course was a hopelessly vague one. Flying 
low, they drove out to the tide-line, and back again, 
and around, and could discern no trace of Yvette. The 
lantern she carried would send its light a very feeble 
distance on such a night, and the girl herself would only 
be seen if they passed close to her. On that great waste 
of sands, six miles across and seven miles out at the 
present ebb-tide, the chance of finding her was pitifully 
small. 

“ The tide’s on the turn ! ” cried Andre into the 
speaking-tube, after half-an-hour or more of fruitless 
search. “ My God, she’s lost ! ” 

To the doctor’s memory flashed back the words, “ At 
the same hour She will again walk the sands.” Did it 
mean that Concarnot would again have arranged a car- 
278 


THE GREEN FLARE 


bide flare, coloured green, in order to lure the girl out 
to the quicksands? If only 

Dr. Wycherley looked at his watch. Close on mid- 
night. This should be the time, if ever. 

Yes, there it was ! The green flare was throwing 
out its lure into the night. 

“ Make for that light ! ” he called into the speaking- 
tube. 

Andre gave a sharp turn to his steering wheel, 
and the monoplane bore swift and straight to the direc- 
tion of the green flare. A few minutes later, Dr. Wy- 
cherley’s straining ears caught a faint cry through the 
racket of the motor. 

“ We’re near her! Circle round and round.” 

Andre instantly shut off the motor, and began to 
plane the machine round in wide circles. With the 
noise of the motor cut off, Yvette’s agonised shrieks for 
help came clear to them. The young aviator took his 
distance with splendid judgment, and the monoplane 
glided down to within a few yards of her, the wheels 
settling deep into the semi-liquid sands with a jerk that 
pitched them forward from their seats as though the 
craft had driven into a ditch. 

Rapidly fastening himself to a long rope, the young 
fellow climbed out from the monoplane and started to 
plunge across the half-dozen yards of sand to Yvette. 
She was buried up to the armpits by now, and struggling 
wildly. 

He reached her; grasped at her; and the two to- 
gether began slowly to sink in the oozing, sucking, slurg- 
ing sands — in the clutches of the Black Astarte. 

279 


THE MIND-READER 


Only the rope held them to a bare chance of life, 
and to pull them to safety they were dependent on the 
strength of an old man whose muscles were rusted with 
age. Dr. Wycherley gave of his utmost strength, but 
he was unequal to a strain which would have tried even 
a powerful athlete. . . . 

Andre saw that it was hopeless. He started to un- 
bind the rope from himself, in order to fasten it round 
Yvette and give her the chance of life. 

“Wait!” cried the doctor. A sudden inspiration 
had come to him. He climbed over to the propeller and 
twisted the end of the rope round its shaft, as though it 
were the drum of a capstan. 

“ Hold tight to Yvette ! ” he warned as he started 
the ignition of the motor. 

The propeller whizzed round as it gathered in the 
slack of the rope ; went slow to the sudden strain ; and 
gradually the two bodies were drawn up to the aircraft 
— heaved out of the sucking slime, reluctant to lose its 
prey. 

Safe ! On board the monoplane, held up by its two 
broad wings, they could wait until the rising tide should 
float them off the quicksands. 

In the early morning, when the tide served, a boat 
came out to take them from the monoplane, and to tow 
the machine back to land. They put Yvette to bed, 
so that merciful sleep might smooth over the shock of 
her terrible experience; but Andre and his brother set 
out at once for the home of Etienne Concarnot. 

In Andre’s breast-pocket lay curled a dog-whip, and 
his face was set of purpose. 

280 


CHAPTER XXVII 


LABOUR AGAINST CAPITAL 

A CROSS the table in Dr. Wycherley’s London 
consulting-room sat a rough, blunt man, secre^ 
tary to the National Seaman’s and Fireman’s 
Union. Now a leader of sailors in their fight against 
the big capitalists, he had not so long ago been a sailor 
himself, and the calling still showed in his bearing and 
in his walk. Jim Cobbold was his name. 

“ You’ve seen in the papers, sir, what Lars Larssen 
intends to do with us ? ” he was asking. 

“ I rarely read daily newspapers,” returned Dr. 
Wycherley quietly. “ And who is Lars Larssen ? ” 
The secretary of the Union gave a gasp of aston- 
ishment. “ Surely you’re joking, sir? Not know Lars 
Larssen ! Why, he’s a millionaire twenty times over ! ” 
“ Money-making has no interest for me — anyone 
can get money in exchange for his scruples.” 

“ But he’s the great ship-owner, sir. Started as a 
cabin-boy on a trawler out of Glos’ter, Massachusetts, 
and worked his way right up till he owns ships all over 
the world. Has great offices in London, New York, San 
Francisco, Rio, Hamburg, Singapore, Nagasaki and 
goodness knows where not.” 

“ What else is he ? ” 


281 


THE MIND-READER 


Jim Cobbold’s face darkened as his thoughts of the 
man surged up within him. “ Lars Larssen is Anti- 
Christ ! ” he cried fiercely, bringing a rough fist down 
on Dr. Wycherley’s consulting-room table. “ He’d 
grind us all into slavery, just to make more money! 
Hasn’t he enough of his filthy money already? Hasn’t 
he all the mansions and flunkeys and wine and women 
he wants? What could he do with more money if he 
had it ? Tell me that ! ” 

Then he added, remembering where he was: “ You’ll 
excuse me, sir? I was forgetting myself. It was very 
kind of you to see me at all, with your time so busy. 
But you were so good in helping my sister that time — 
I’ll never forget it, sir, and may God reward you if 1 
can’t! — that I make bold to come and ask you to help 
us in the fight.” 

“ The Union against Lars Larssen? ” 

“ Against Lars Larssen and the big combine of ship- 
owners he’s getting together. The papers are full of it. 
He’s going to get control of every line in the world 
worth talking of. When they’ve got the combine fixed 
up, he’ll crush us out of existence. Oh, I can see quite 
well what’s coming — every Union man’s to be kicked 
into the gutter. You know we’re young, and we’ve not 
yet found our footing, and Lars Larssen will crush us 
before we’ve had time to get strength.” 

“ The Union has certainly my sympathies in the 
fight,” answered Dr. Wycherley, “ but wherein can I 
help? This is no case for a doctor.” 

Disappointment crept into Jim Cobbold’s face and 
voice. “ I know that, sir. But I didn’t come here be- 
282 


LABOUR AGAINST CAPITAL 


cause you’re a doctor — I came because I know you’ve 
got such wonderful powers. My sister said to me, she 
said ” 

Dr. Wycherley interrupted him with a gesture. 
“ Surely your only chance is to strengthen the Union 
as rapidly as possible, and get public sympathy on your 
side? ” 

“ There’s no time, sir. If this had come eighteen 
months later, or even twelve months later! But with 
your wonderful powers I was kind of hoping — ” he 
paused irresolutely, for he had no definite plan in his 
mind. 

Dr. Wycherley rose and laid a kindly hand on the 
sailor’s shoulder. 66 1 am no worker of miracles,” he 
said. “ The Union must not look to me for help — it 
must win through the efforts of its leader. Eight for 
public sympathy — get the British public with you.” 

“ Unfortunately it isn’t only them, sir. This fight 
is international. There are all the foreign Unions, too, 
and we can’t get welded together properly.” 

The doctor’s manservant knocked and entered to 
announce a patient. 

“ Good-by, sir,” said Jim Cobbold, “ and thank you 
all the same.” 

But there was disappointment in his voice, for he 

had hoped for miracles. 

* * * # * * * * 

The newspaper stir over the great shipping combine 
died down quickly as a storm in party politics turned 
public attention in another direction. But the fight 
between Lars Larssen and the world of sailormen went 
283 


THE MIND-READER 


on in grim silence, working undergound with a fierce 
intensity of purpose to an end unsuspected by the 
Unions or the newspapers, or even the ship-owners whom 
Lars Larssen was using as tools to work his will. 

For Lars Larssen was no ordinary successful man, 
no ordinary millionaire. The brief description given of 
him by Jim Cobbold did not do justice to his personality. 
The son of Scandinavian immigrants to the States, 
factory-workers, he had run away to sea at the age of 
thirteen, with the call of the ocean ringing in his ears 
from the Viking inheritance that was his. But on this 
was superposed the fierce desire for success that formed 
the psychical atmosphere of the new American environ- 
ment. As a boy in the smoke-blackened factory town, 
he had breathed in the longing to make money — big 
money — to use men to his own ends, to be a master of 
masters. 

With precocious insight, he quickly learnt that 
money is made not by those who go out upon the waters, 
but by those who stay on land and send them hither and 
thither. He soon gave up the sea-faring life and en- 
tered a ship-broker’s office. He starved himself in order 
to save money to speculate in shipping reinsurance. 
An uncanny insight had guided him to rush in when 
shrewdly prudent business men held aloof. 

Always he speculated — took long chances. Always 
he saw big when other men looked at little points. 
Again and again he had played his entire capital on 
ventures that seemed mad risks. 

He had emphatically “ made good.” Each fresh 
success had given him new confidence in himself and 
284 


LABOUR AGAINST CAPITAL 


his judgment and his powers, until at the time of the 
fight with the Unions he was a human dynamo of fierce 
mental energy. He would allow nothing to stand in 
his path. Scruples were to him the burdens of fools. 
He had commercial spies in his pay the world round. 
Traitors amongst the sailors and firemen and dockers 
did his will in splitting up opposing forces. To the 
great end he had in view no means of help was outside 
his moral pale. 

Such was Lars Larssen. He had no wife living — 
only his boy Olaf remained to him. A fair-haired giant 
in build, with inscrutable eyes and mouth set grim and 
straight — such was Lars Larssen. 

The battle ground of the fight was the world, and so 
its importance was masked to those who were not look- 
ing upon it with eyes that ranged the wide world. The 
dockers’ strike in Buenos Ayres did not seem to have 
connection with the lockout in the Pacific coastal trade 
of North America or the raising of rates in the carry- 
ing trade between the Far East and Europe. 

It was not until many months later that the guns 
of the fight sounded loud in the ears of the English pub- 
lic. On some trifling excuse, the International Federa- 
tion of Ship-Owners had declared a lockout against the 
English Union — no Union man was to be employed on 
their vessels. Scratch crews were picked up here and 
there to work for the freight ships, while fifty thousand 
English sailors, fighting for their right of manhood, 
were thrown out to starve. At the seaport towns there 
were picketings on the part of the Union men, and 
bloody reprisals on the part of the scratch crews, mostly 
285 


THE MIND-READER 


foreigners, who had been brought by the Federation to 
help in the lockout. 

To direct the fight from near at hand, Lars Larssen 
had pitched his headquarters at his great London office 
in Leadenhall Street. 

“ Mr. Lars Larssen to see you, sir,” announced the 
manservant to Dr. Wycherley in his London consulting- 
room, some six months after the interview with Jim 
Cobbold. 

Dr. Wycherley had trained himself to exhibit no 
surprise, but he was certainly surprised at the visit of 
the great ship-owner. It seemed as though, against his 
original intentions, he was to be drawn into this fight 
of masters and men. The piteous distress of the Union 
sailors and their families had been brought home to him 
on a recent visit to the slums of Cardiff (where he had 
picked up the strange case of William Owen Gwynn, 
madman, poet, genius and dolt), and his broad humani- 
tarian sympathies had been stirred by this unequal 
struggle of fifty thousand poverty-stricken men against 
the irresistible millions of the Ship-Owners’ Federation. 

The words of Jim Cobbold — “ Lars Larssen is Anti- 
Christ!” — were ringing in Dr. Wycherley’s ears when 
the shipping magnate was ushered in. 

At once Dr. Wycherley felt the overpowering per- 
sonality of the man — the fierce mental energies that 
were held in check within him at the bidding of his will. 
Here was the strength of a leviathan — balanced, poised, 
ready to be turned in this direction or that at the will 
of the controlling ego. 

Yet the interview started on easy, frictionless, almost 

286 


LABOUR AGAINST CAPITAL 


commonplace lines. Lars Larssen had come straight 
to his point. 

“ I had heard of your exceptional powers as a 
psychologist, Dr. Wycherley,” he said. “ I want the 
best specialist in the world for this case of mine, so I 
come to you.” 

“ Have you brought the boy with you? ” asked Dr. 
Wycherley, drawing a rapid mental conclusion. 

“ In the next room. I’ll explain before you see him. 
He’s fourteen. My only child, and I want him to take 
up my work when I die. That means training out of 
the ordinary. To take up the work where I leave off 
wants brains, grit and something beyond them.” There 
was no brag in his tone — Lars Larssen was merely stat- 
ing facts. 

“ Training that must mean a heavy burden on 
childish shoulders,” commented Dr. Wycherley. 

“ Olaf has a weakness that must be cut out of him. 
It’s fear — funk, to put it bluntly.” 

“ He will probably grow out of it.” 

“ He must grow out of it. I killed fear in myself 
before I was his age — punched and kicked it out of 
myself by means of the sailors on the Mary R. of Glos’- 
ter. Used those men as whetstones. Butted into them 
till they grew afraid of a cabin-boy ! You notice that 
I limp still? I reckon that limp has been worth some 
tens of millions of dollars to me.” 

“ And you have been training your boy on the same 
lines ? ” 

“ At his preparatory school I told him to fight every 
boy in the place until they acknowledged him master. 
287 


THE MIND-READER 


When he used to come home licked and with his tail be- 
tween his legs, I lammed him with a strap, trying to get 
grit into him. Don’t think I’m a hard father — I’d give 
my eyes to have Olaf a man that people will respect 
and fear.” 

44 Yours, then, is the gospel of fear? ” 

Lars Larssen’s eyes narrowed a shade as they looked 
straight into Dr. Wycherley’s. 44 That’s my concern. 
I’m here to consult you professionally on behalf of my 
boy. You can name your own fee — I shan’t haggle. 
Can you cut fear out of my boy ? ” 

44 That depends on whether it is constitutional or 
acquired. It also depends on the ulterior object of the 
operation.” 

Dr. Wycherley’s left hand was making a clean-cut 
little miniature on a sheet of letter-paper of the grim, 
powerful face on the other side of the consulting-room 
table. Lars Larssen glanced at it: 44 You’re an artist, 
too ? ” he asked. 

44 No; scarcely that. I take records of my cases, 
and it saves time to do it while I’m talking.” 

44 Yes — good ! That’s a useful trick. Could you 
teach my boy to do two things at once? ” 

44 1 have not yet decided whether I will take up the 
case or not.” 

The ship-owner’s mouth tightened a shade. He was 
not used to allowing opposition to his wishes. 44 Didn’t 
I say you could name your own fee? I come to you 
because I hear you’re the best man at this mental job, 
and I pay the price you name. It isn’t constitutional 
fear in the boy — it’s acquired. His mother was no 
288 


LABOUR AGAINST CAPITAL 


coward, or I’d never have married her; I’m no coward. 
When I tell you I’m afraid of nothing on earth or in 
heaven or in hell, I’m telling you the literal truth. But 
Olaf, I believe, got frightened by some stupid nurses 
when he was a little child, and it kind of grew into his 
brain. I want it cut out. Though I’ve got detectives 
guarding him night and day against the Union men — 
and detectives guarding myself — he’s funky of them 
hurting him or me. Thinks there are spies amongst 
the detectives. Perhaps there are — but what of that? ” 

“ A bad environment for a boy.” 

“ You could take him away with you to any place 
you think right.” 

“ I will see your boy first, and then I will discuss 
my second point,” replied Dr. Wycherley. 

Olaf was shown in — a fair-haired, delicate-looking 
lad with hunted eyes. Dr. Wycherley’s warm human 
sympathies went out to him. Only a father obsessed by 
the idea of domination that was the keynote to the char- 
acter of Lars Larssen would have insisted on the Spar- 
tan regime that had been mapped out for the boy. To 
Dr. Wycherley it was patent at a glance that the son 
could never be what the father was trying to mould 
him into. 

“ I would like to see your boy alone,” said the doctor. 

And when Lars Larssen had gone to the waiting- 
room he settled the lad in a comfortable arm-chair and 
talked to him quietly and kindly for many minutes, un- 
til the flush of understanding in the boy’s face showed 
the doctor that the sympathy contact had been made. 

“ Tell me now,” said Dr. Wycherley, “ what is it 

289 


THE MIND-READER 


that you are afraid of. Come, I am your friend, and 
I wish you nothing but good. Tell me frankly just 
what you feel. It will not go beyond me. Do you 
have bad dreams, or is it in the daytime that fears crowd 
upon you P 99 

Olaf turned his hunted eyes around towards the 
door before he whispered: “ It’s my father I am afraid 
of!” 

“ How ? In what way ? ” 

But the boy did not dare to answer. 


CHAPTER XXVIH 


A BATTLE OF WILLS 

D R. WYCHERLEY had asked for an interview 
at the ship-owner’s office. He had a particular 
reason for wishing to investigate further the 
mental atmosphere that obsessed Lars Larssen. In the 
man’s own office, surrounded by what he had planned 
for himself, more could be gleaned than from the in- 
scrutable eyes and the grim, straight mouth. 

Dr. Wycherley had found himself drawn into the 
great fight between Lars Larssen and the sailormen, in 
spite of his original intentions. The man’s dominating 
personality had made a profound impression upon him. 
It was no longer the case of a mere financial squabble — • 
for which Dr. Wycherley had a deep contempt bom 
of his study of mind — it was now complicated by the 
strange relations of father and son. And beyond this 
was something larger still that Dr. Wycherley sensed 
with his keen, intuitive perception, though as yet the 
feeling had not crystallized into the tangible. 

In the great building in Leadenhall street which 
bore the simple business sign of 46 LARS LARSSEN — 
SHIPPING,” a sign arrogant in its simplicity, was a 
room on the second floor that quite transcended Dr. 
Wycherley’s experience of business offices. It was a 
291 


THE MIND-READER 


room a hundred feet long and broad in proportion — a 
room occupying practically the whole of the second 
floor. A glass-domed roof rose up centrally to the very 
top of the building. 

A few broad tables and some chairs looked almost 
lost in the room, but the walls were filled with coloured 
charts of the world, some with scores of flag-pins upon 
them that doubtless indicated the positions of ships. 
At the far end of the room, beyond the central dome 
of light, was a horseshoe table covered with papers and 
document-baskets and telephone apparatus. In the 
centre of the horseshoe was placed Lars Larssen’s chair. 
Behind his chair, hung on the wall, was a portrait of 
Olaf by Sargent. 

As Dr. Wycherley was ushered in by a secretary, 
his first impression was a slight feeling of contempt for 
the theatrical trick that gave a visitor a self-conscious 
walk of some thirty yards before he reached his allotted 
seat at the horseshoe table. Doubtless this device had 
helped in business deals by bringing nervousness to a 
man as he walked down the long stretch of room. 

But Dr. Wycherley’s second impression was of a 
very different order. At last the vague intuitions that 
had been floating in his mind gathered coherence. In 
a flash he saw the inner meaning of this prodigal space. 

It was not a mere business office he was in — it was 
a throne-room. 

He recognised now that Jim Cobbold’s estimate of 
Lars Larssen had been ludicrously short of the truth. 
Here was no man striving after the pleasures of man- 
sions and flunkies, wine and women, amassing money 
292 


A BATTLE OF WILLS 


merely to gratify his sensual appetites. It was bigger 
game that obsessed his thoughts — power, world-power. 

“ I would congratulate you on your room,” he said 
as he shook hands. “ It is an office for a master of 
men.” 

Into Lars Larssen’s face crept a gleam of pleasure 
— Dr. Wycherley had touched the vanity that lies in 
all men. The ship-owner replied : “ In every one of my 
offices around the world is a room like this. I alone 
make use of it. When I’m away it stands for me. It’s 
my sign. 

“ Above the dome,” he continued, as he saw that 
Dr. Wycherley was keenly interested and doubtless im- 
pressed, “ is the Marconi apparatus that keeps me in 
touch with my ships. They again link me with New 
York, New York with San Francisco, thence again by 
ship to Nagasaki, thence to Singapore, to Colombo, to 
Aden, to Naples, to Hamburg, to London. I’m inde- 
pendent of the wires and the cables.” 

“ As I passed through the offices downstairs,” re- 
marked Dr. Wycherley, “ they seemed very quiet. 
Your business routine must go through in very orderly 
fashion.” 

66 They’re quiet in the daytime,” replied Lars Lars- 
sen, “ because the big work of the office is at night. I 
have two staffs — a day staff and a night staff. To- 
night my men will be at work on matters that the ordi- 
nary ship-owner would leave for to-morrow. That’s 
been one of my business rules — do to-morrow’s work 
to-day — get ahead of the other man.” 

Dr. Wycherley fixed his keen, searching eyes on the 

293 


THE MIND-READER 


ship-owner. 44 When you have attained to the summit 
of your ambition,” he said slowly, 44 when you are in- 
deed Emperor of the Seven Seas, when the decision of 
war or peace between kingdom and kingdom lies in your 
hands because the traffic of food upon the seas is in 
your hand — what then ? ” 

Lars Larssen flicked with thumb and forefinger at 
a speck on his sleeve before replying. 44 Was that an 
ant? ” he said sharply, half to himself. 

44 No, it was only dust,” answered Dr. Wycherley. 
44 When you are Emperor of the Seven Seas — what 
then ? ” 

44 Then I’ll flick away those who oppose me as I 
flicked away that — that speck of dust,” was the reply, 
given in low, tense voice. 44 1, and my son after me, 
and his son after him.” 

44 Do you know the story of the little Due de Reich- 
stadt — l’Aiglon, the son of the great Napoleon? ” 

44 You mean that my son Olaf is another such weak- 
ling? ” Lars Larssen’s face grew dark with anger, but 
an anger the more to be feared in that it was controlled 
and directed, that it was held in leash. 

44 1 do mean that.” 

44 You lie!” 

44 It is apparent to all but yourself.” 

44 You lie!” repeated Larssen harshly. 44 You’re 
incompetent. You haven’t read him right. He’s in a 
funk at present, because he was frightened when he 
was young. But, by heaven and hell, I’ll have it either 
persuaded out of him or beaten out of him. That’s 
294 


A BATTLE OF WILLS 


why I came to you — I thought you were skilled in your 
mental quackery.” 

Dr. Wycherley drew a sheet of paper towards him 
and replied without the least change from his ordinary 
tone of voice : 44 I can cure your son — if you wish. But 
my price is a high one.” 

“ Name it.” 

The doctor scribbled rapidly on the sheet of paper 
and handed it to the ship-owner. The latter glanced 
at it, then tore the paper into scraps. 

“ I thought you said a price," said he cuttingly. 

“ That is my price — that you send a note to the 
newspapers announcing that the lockout against the 
English Union is withdrawn, and that you have decided 
to recognise the various seamen’s and firemen’s unions 
in future.” 

“ I pay in money.” 

44 Money is of no value to me — as well offer me cow- 
rie shells.” 

44 I offer you a hundred thousand pounds. Take it 
or leave it.” 

“ I leave it.” 

44 Very well — I reckon that’s an end of the matter.” 

44 That is by no means an end of the matter,” re- 
turned Dr. Wycherley. 44 1 represent two sets of in- 
terests — those of the sailors and those of your son. For 
the moment let us put the question of the sailors aside. 
You are killing the boy because of your ins — , your 
fanatical determination that he shall be like what you 
imagine yourself to be. You recognise that he is a 
295 


THE MIND-READER 


* funk,’ as you term it — but you don’t recognise that he 
inherits it from yourself.” 

“I a funk? You must be crazy!” 

“ Shall I prove it to you? ” 

“ Prove away — if you can.” 

“ Olaf has not told me what he is afraid of but I 
see it now. He is terrified at the idea of what you want 
to make him — master of the world. You cannot under- 
stand that terror. On the other hand, you were afraid 
of a tiny ant just now.” 

Lars Larssen gripped the side of his chair with tense 
fingers, but he answered not a word. 

Dr. Wycherley continued : “ Terror of the big and 
vast, or fear of the tiny and harmless — where lies the 
essential difference? I intend to show you, Lars Lars- 
sen, what Fear means. Yes, to show you what lies 
within yourself, until you ask pardon of your boy for 
your scorn of him, and until you give justice to the men 
who toil for you to build up your millions. 

“ A little while ago you told me that this great room 
stands for yourself, and that when your clerks and man- 
agers enter it, even though it be empty, they think 
of you. It was your sign, you said. Well, the sign 
I put against it is the tiny and the harmless. Whenever 
you see an ant, Lars Larssen, think of what stands 
against you ! ” 

Dr. Wycherley rose and took up his hat. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE “ SENDING ” 

T HREE days later, Lars Larssen was working late 
in the evening in his great throne-room, writing 
cipher messages to be sent by wireless to his 
houses in the East. He was concentrating intently, 
working with the fierce concentration to which he had 
trained his brain. Finally he grew weary, and raised 
his head to stretch himself. 

As his eyes rose, he saw on the opposite side of the 
table, looking at him gravely, Dr. Wycherley. The 
doctor was sitting outside the brightness of the electric 
table lamp, as he had sat on that momentous interview. 

Larssen for a moment was spellbound — for no vis- 
itor had been announced. Recovering himself, he was 
about to utter a question, when the figure melted away 
before his eyes. He rang his bell sharply for his secre- 
tary, who was working in a small room behind his chair. 

“ Did you hear anything peculiar just now? Any- 
body go out your way for instance? 99 
“ No, sir. Nothing.” 

66 To-morrow night and in future you will occupy 
that table over there.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

In the morning, as he put on the clothes his valet 

297 


THE MIND-READER 


had laid out for him, a speck on the sleeve of his coat 
caught his attention. He looked closer. It moved — 
it was a tiny red ant. He flicked it away sharply. 

The next evening he deliberately stayed late at his 
office again, and again concentrated intently on his 
work, but looking up occasionally. He wished to re- 
produce, if possible, the strange hallucination of the 
night before. He was not afraid of it — he was merely 
interested. 

At the office nothing happened. But as he was 
stepping into his motor, thinking deeply, a dim figure 
of some one lurking in the shadows of the car made him 
draw back with a start. He called the footman to him 
— one of his paid detectives. 

“ Get that man out,” said he. 

The footman quickly pulled a revolver out of his 
livery and looked inside the car. 

“ There’s no one there, sir.” 

“ Good ! ” said Larssen evenly. “ Drive home.” 

He took out a wax match from the receptacle inside 
the motor in order to light a cigar. On the match was 
a tiny ant, and he dropped it hastily. He looked inside 
the match receptacle — there were several ants there. 

When he arrived home he ordered the car to be 
fumigated, and that another one be put into his service. 

He undressed for bed in a very thoughtful mood. 
“ That figure inside the car,” he meditated. “ Looks 
as if my eyes were going wrong. Better cut out smok- 
ing for a bit.” 

Two days later, returning early in the afternoon 
from his office, he went to Olaf’s playroom. In it he 
298 


THE “ SEEDING ” 


had had a carpenter’s bench put up for his boy to make 
model ships and a pugilist outfit to get him to practise 
boxing. But Olaf was not engaged in ship-building or 
in bag-punching — he was intently examining a little flat 
box with a glass cover. 

“ What have you got there? ” asked his father. 

44 I bought it at the stores to-day, Dad. Isn’t it 
cute? It’s an ant’s nest with real ants under glass. 
One can make all sorts of experiments with them — - 
coloured glasses like Lord Avebury used to do and ” 

Lars Larssen snatched up the box and threw it far 
out of the open window. The boy uttered a cry of 
surprise and anger. 

44 Why did you do that, Dad? I wanted to ” 

44 1 hate ants. I don’t want you to play with them.” 

44 But why ? I like them — they’re such bully little 
fellows.” 

44 I’ll tell you why, my son,” answered Larssen, with 
unusual feeling in his voice, 44 and then perhaps you’ll 
understand. A long time ago, before I married your 
mother, I was shipwrecked on one of the desolate swamp 
keys of the Bahamas. They’re hateful islands — noth- 
ing on them of value except the flamingoes, great blaz- 
ing pink flamingoes. But the horrible part of it was 
the ants. They were everywhere on the island — swarm- 
ing in myriads — ravenous ants with big, nipping jaws. 
They were in our food, in our water, in our clothes, in 
our sleeping blankets. You woke up at night to find 
them — ugh ! ” 

44 There’s one on your waistcoat now ! ” 

Larssen brushed it away as though it were some 

299 


THE MIND-READER 


deadly insect. His face had paled imperceptibly. 
44 Did this come out of your box? ” he asked roughly. 

4 4 It couldn’t have, Dad — the box was closed up 
tight.” 

44 Well, there oughtn’t to be ants wandering loose 
in this climate.” 

44 There are plenty of them out in the garden, in 
the long grass parts. But they can’t hurt anybody — 
they’re so tiny and harmless.” Still he could not un- 
derstand his father’s horror of them. 

44 My God, what did you say? ” Larssen had seized 
his son’s arm. 

44 1 only said they were so tiny and harmless.” 

44 Who told you that? ” 

44 No one. What makes you look so pale, Dad?” 

But Lars Larssen did not answer this. 44 Put on 
your boxing gloves,” he commanded roughly. 

The boy reluctantly obeyed. 

That night Lars Larssen slept uneasily. A night- 
mare came to him — a nightmare that froze him with 
horror. He was back on that desolate key of the Ba- 
hamas — this time alone. The swamp-land was alive 
with ants — great, fierce, red ants with nipping jaws 
that grew and grew in size. They advanced upon him 
as an army — a myriad army deadly of purpose. They 
had faces now — the faces of ravenous devils! They 
were going to devour him alive! He strove to fight 
them off, but his body and limbs were as paralysed. 
Now the foremost of them were swarming over him. . . . ! 

He awoke bathed in sweat and trembling in every 
limb. The moonlight shone into the room in a broad 
300 


THE “SENDING” 


band. Behind the moon-streak, there in the corner of 
the room, was the figure of Dr. Wycherley looking at 
him gravely. 

Lars Larssen’s strength of will forsook him for the 
moment. Unstrung by the vivid horror of his dream, 
he threw his arms across his face to shut out the vision, 
phantom or real. When his ego recovered possession 
of his brain and he took his arms from before his eyes, 
nothing was to be seen save the broad band of moonlight. 

He turned on the electric light, and for the rest of 
the night read a novel to keep his thoughts off the ants. 
When daylight came there would be big decisions to be 
made, and he must keep a clear head. Resolutely, by 
sheer concentration of will, he kept his thoughts off the 
ants. 

But his choice of book was an unfortunate one. It 
turned on the uncanny powers of the Indian fakirs, and 
one of the incidents dealt with a “ sending ” — a rain of 
frogs that the fakir materialised against a royal enemy. 
He threw away the book and took up another. 

In the morning, as he made his way to the office, the 
clerks noticed an unusual tenseness in his face. His 
secretary said to him solicitously: “ You’re not looking 
quite yourself, sir.” 

“ Nothing the matter.” 

“ I’m glad to hear it.” 

Larssen pointed suddenly : “ What’s that crawling 
over the blue paper on the desk? ” 

“ I don’t see anything.” 

“ There, there ! ” 


301 


THE MIND-READER 


“ That’s nothing, sir. Only an insect of some 
kind.” He went to brush it away. 

“ Have the room fumigated this afternoon.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

A deputation from the Sailors’ Union called at the 
office. Larssen refused to see them. 

That night he slept with a stout stick by his bedside. 
“ If he’s flesh and blood, I’ll kill him,” was his thought. 
But Dr. Wycherley did not appear — only there came 
io the ship-owner a terrible nightmare wherein he was 
chained to his desk in his great domed room, and a vast 
army of ants advanced again and swarmed upon him — 
into his eyes, his ears, his nostrils . . . ! 

That week was a week of torture. At night the 
horrible dreams: by day the ants — here, there, every- 
where in unexpected places. Only one or two — never in 
quantities, and quite harmless, but ants, real ants. 

Then came the day when the ants were no longer 
real — when he fancied there were ants where none ex- 
isted, and his servants and clerks looked at him strange- 
ly and seemed glad to get out of his presence as quickly 
as possible. 

But Lars Larssen would not give in. A dozen times, 
a score of times the temptation came to him to write or 
send to Dr. Wycherley, and he thrust it aside with his 
iron will. He would not give in. 

Nor would his pride allow him to consult any other 
doctor. He bought sleeping drugs, and took them in 
big doses. Sometimes they gave him deep sleep, and 
sometimes they but intensified the phantasmagoria of 
his tortured brain. 


302 


THE “SENDING” 


He left them alone and tried to do without sleep, 
reading the night through under the glare of the lights. 

Then came the night when Olaf awoke shrieking at 
the sound of revolver shots, and rushed to his father’s 
room to find him gazing wild-eyed at a broken mirror — 
in his hand a smoking revolver. 

“ There’s nobody here ! What are you afraid of, 
Had? ” he cried. 

“ Of nothing on earth or in heaven or in hell ! ” an- 
swered his father grimly. “ Get back to your room ! ” 

The next day the boy slipped off secretly to Dr. 
Wycherley’s rooms and implored him to come and help 
his father, who had become so strange in his manner. 
Dr. Wycherley at once promised, and went to call on 
the ship-owner at his office. 

When he was shown in he was startled at the change 
in Larssen. The man’s eyes were bleared and blood- 
shot from want of sleep; his mouth was flanked with 
lines of tense emotion; he had in a short three weeks 
aged by ten years. Lars Larssen was an old man. 

Dr. Wycherley was moved in spite of himself. His 
warm human sympathies warred with the stern duties 
he had had to carry out. This Lars Larssen was an 
exceptional man, a man beyond the ordinary pale of 
thought and morals — he must needs be dealt with in an 
exceptional way. If his gospel were the gospel of fear, 
he must be shown the fear to which he as well as others 
was subject. If he claimed the sovereignty of the earth 
by right of strength of will, if he claimed to trample on 
ten thousands of his fellow-beings by right of money — 
303 


THE MIND-READER 


then he must be shown the weakness of his will and the 
uselessness of his money. 

The phantoms were a simple projection of the sub- 
conscious personality which Dr. Wycherley had willed 
to appear to Lars Larssen. Night after night he had 
thrown himself into the trance state for this purpose. 
The projections were entirely an effect of mind on mind 
— there was nothing material in them. The ants were 
real, and the explanation of their presence was equally 
simple — the footman detective was in reality an ally of 
the sailors. 

But these two simple means of working on the ship- 
owner’s mind, acting together and re-inforcing one an- 
other, had produced an effect that startled even Dr. 
Wycherley. He was moved to pity at the havoc they 
had wrought. 

“ What have you come for? ” snarled the ship- 
owner. 

“ To offer you peace with honour.” 

“ I make no terms. D’you think you can move me 
with your ants and your ghosts ? ” He laughed mirth- 
lessly. 

“ Come, let us be frank,” said Dr. Wycherley. 
“ You dared me to show you what Fear means — I have 
done so. If I have been wholly unscrupulous in my 
methods, that is a point which should earn your respect. 
The means that were necessary to the purpose I have 
used, just as you yourself would have used them.” 

“ Get to your point, whatever it is ! ” 

“ You have met Fear, and now you can realise' 

304 



" ‘There’s nobody here ! What are you afraid of, Dad ? ’ ” 







THE “SENDING” 


jour boy’s terror at the career you had mapped out 
for him. Be fair to him ; be fair to your sailors. Give 
to both their liberty of action. See the humanitarian 
side — crush that Napoleonic obsession which could only 
bring misery to all. For my part, I promise that the 
visions shall cease; that there shall be no more of the 
4 sending ’ of ants.” 

44 There’s an easier way for me to insure that,” said 
Lars Larssen grimly, and drew a revolver from his desk. 

Dr. Wycherley tapped the table a little impatiently, 
a n^nnerism of his when anything particularly stupid 
was said. 44 Come, come, Mr. Larssen, that way leads 
to nowhere. If you choose to shoot me, you are ar- 
rested and hanged. You merely show the world you 
were afraid to let me live. That hasty idea was surely, 
unworthy of you.” 

Larssen lowered his revolver. 

44 The proposal I make is one of peace with honour,” 
continued Dr. Wycherley. 44 Of my own accord I shall 
stop the 4 sending,’ and I leave it to you to do the right 
thing on your own initiative. There are no conditions 
to my promise.” 

44 Try to get me to give in by a trick — eh? ” sneered 
Lars Larssen in his pride. 44 Think I’m afraid — eh? 
I told you before that I fear nothing on earth or in 
heaven or in hell: I tell you so again. Do what you 
please. Now get out!” 

44 My promise still holds good,” said Dr. Wycherley 
as he rose to leave. 

******* 


305 


THE MIND-READER 


When Olaf went to his father’s bedroom the next 
morning as usual, he found him lying white and cold. 
He tried to wake his father — in vain. 

The doctor certified death from an overdose of 
chloral. It was proved at the inquest that the de- 
ceased had been lately in the habit of taking sleeping 
drugs, and the jury brought in a verdict of death by 
misadventure. Only Dr. Wycherley doubted that the 
verdict was a true one, for he had looked into the soul 
of the man and had fathomed his overmastering pride. 

Lars Larssen had been shown the Fear that lay in 
himself, and he preferred Death. 


CHAPTER XXX 


ON MEDENHAM DOWN 

T WO men had toiled up the great green hump of 
Medenham Down — Travis Kennion, Home Sec- 
retary, a man of forty ; and his friend Hatchard, 
the barrister, some years older. 

They now stood on its summit, where the hill breaks 
away sheer into a chalk cliff fronting the fertile plain 
of the Weald of Kent. Many hundred feet below, it 
drowsed in the sunshine of a Sunday afternoon in sum- 
mer, breathing of tranquillity and contentment and the 
peace of humble work carried out dutifully by simple, 
upright, God-fearing country-folk. 

But on the summit above there was raging a conflict 
of emotion and will between two men of complex tem- 
perament — a conflict vital to the future of Travis Ken- 
nion. He was a man great in many respects, a man 
with ideals pitched high, yet with one kink of character 
which threatened to ruin his career and cut short his 
splendid services to the nation. 

“ I’ve brought you up here,” said the K.C., “ to try 
to make you realise your position. Socially and polit- 
ically you’re standing on the brink of a precipice. A 
few steps more ” — he pointed to the cliff at their feet — 
and you go down to perdition.” 

307 


THE MIND-READER 


“ Analogies,” replied Kennion wearily, as he 
stretched himself on the close-cropped turf, “ are all 
false. No one situation is like any other. I do not 
admit the precipice in my case.” 

“ But you’ve seen the same situation in the cases 
of other men. Parnell and Kitty O’Shea, for instance. 
The lure of a bright eye — and the man throws over po- 
sition, power, the world’s respect, and everything that 
makes life worth living. As soon as your affair becomes 
generally known — and it’s bound to leak out soon — 
your parliamentary career will be made impossible for 
you. It’s sheer madness to go on ! ” 

“ A very beautiful madness,” mused Kennion. 

“ Who is the woman ? ” asked Hatchard sharply. 
It was in a motor-car that he had seen her, at night- 
time, and a motor- veil and goggles make ample disguise. 
All he knew was that she was a woman of their own 
world, and that his friend was passionately in love with 
her. 

The Home Secretary made no reply. This was not 
the first time he had been questioned and cross-ques- 
tioned and reasoned with by the K.C., and he was 
weary of it all — obstinately, fiercely weary of it. 

“ If there’s no consideration of duty to your party 
that will move you, think at least of your wife ! ” 

At that Kennion blazed up into sudden anger. 
“ Leave my wife out of it! ” he ordered. “ You don’t 
understand, and never will! My temperament is so 
complex that I scarcely understand it myself. I am 
like a bulb — one covering under another, one under 
another, right down to a tiny core. At that core is 
308 


ON MEDENHAM DOWN 


love and respect for my wife. This ” — his reference 
was plain — 44 this belongs to another layer of my na- 
ture.” 

44 Slough it off.” 

The sudden blaze of anger had died down, and a 
great weariness had now come into Kennion’s voice as 
he replied : 44 1 can’t. ... I don’t think I want to. . . . 
I only want to be left alone. I’ve been sleeping badly 
of late, and I’m tired. There’s the worry of my Bill. 
Is it worth while thrashing it through in face of all the 
opposition it has roused? That is what I ask myself. 
Haven’t I done enough for my country? Is the fight 
worth while? ” 

His voice trailed away. 

From far below came the silvery tinkle of bells from 
the cattle in the lush pastures, and a lark carolled high 
in the heavens. The fertile Weald lay drowsing in the 
summer sunshine breathing of tranquillity and content- 
ment and peace. Into the soul of the Home Secretary 
crept a great longing to go down into the lush meadow- 
land of life, to give up the fight on the heights and find 
peace with the woman he loved. To find peace . . . 

Presently he slept. 

* * * * * * * 

Hatchard had wandered off moodily across Meden- 
ham Down, slashing with his stick at the heads of the 
yellow rag-wort. If it would have done any good, he 
would have thrashed his friend to bring him to a realisa- 
tion of his madness. The lure of a bright eye, and a 
great man like Travis Kennion was to sacrifice position, 
power, wife, friends, and his worth to the nation ! No 
309 


THE MIND-READER 


logic seemed to move him one iota. Who could battle 
with such essence of unreason? 

In this mood, concentrating fiercely on his own 
thoughts, he almost stumbled into Dr. Wycherley, sit- 
ting in the shade of a furze-bush and studying a note- 
book half filled with tiny sketches of men and women — 
delicate little miniatures where every line expressed in- 
ner character. 

Greeting Dr. Wycherley cordially, the barrister 
asked what brought him to Medenham Down. 

“ The Wishing Well at Tildenstone,” answered the 
mental healer. “ A pleasant example of faith-cure — 
ordinary, perhaps, yet with points of interest. I have 
been studying a crippled boy in the village who has 
suddenly regained the use of his limbs. . . . But what 
brings you up here? Ah, I see, something more than 
idle pleasure. I sense the aftermath of a storm. You 
have been doing battle.” 

“ You’re right. And I’ve lost,” answered the K.C., 
and then a sudden idea struck him. “ Could you take 
on the fight ? ” - 

“ Is it within my province? ” 

“ I’ll explain, and then you can judge. Of course, 
what I am going to tell you will be in strictest confi- 
dence.” 

He went into the matter in abundant detail, telling 
of the situation as he knew it and his fruitless reasonings 
with the Home Secretary. 

“ A fine man,” commented Dr. Wycherley. “ I have 
the warmest admiration for his work. A statesman — 
310 


ON MEDENHAM DOWN 


and England has too few statesmen and leaders. Yes, 
a man thoroughly worth saving from his baser self.” 

44 Can you save him? ” 

“ I can promise nothing. The problem as you set 
it before me is the most difficult I have ever had to 
solve.” 

44 Nothing seems to move him,” continued Hatchard. 
44 He’s one of your so-called 4 strong men ’ — and he’ll 
take advice from no one. Unless he has convinced him- 
self, it seems hopeless to try to convince him.” 

44 There are no 4 strong men ’ — merely a popular 
fiction,” answered Dr. Wycherley with his gentle cyni- 
cism. 44 Every man has his weakness, open or hidden. 
It is a matter of degree.” 

44 This weakness is the unforgivable one for a poli- 
tician. Remember Parnell and Kitty O’Shea, and many 
a lesser man, too! The English public is abominably 
hypocritical over such affairs.” 

44 There I cannot agree with you. Men to whom 
power and influence are entrusted are no longer private 
men. They are placed on a pedestal and are expected 
to live on a high plane. It is one of the makeweights 
of power — penalty of position.” 

44 The public attitude is utterly illogical,” argued 
the K.C. 44 How can a man’s private character affect 
the value of his public work? ” 

44 Illogical, perhaps ; but then it is sometimes ex- 
tremely sensible to be illogical. That is life. You 
know it from your practice at the Bar. . . . Now when 
can I meet Kennion ? ” 


311 


THE MIND-READER 


“ He is over there above the chalk cliff, but asleep 
at the moment.” 

“ Excellent ! A man asleep is a man unmasked. 
Let us go and study him.” 

They walked across the down, and for a long time 
Dr. Wycherley bent over the sleeping man, reading into 
the lines of his face and gathering impressions of his 
thoughts that surged out vaguely from his tumbled 
dreams. 

At length the mental healer arose and drew the bar- 
rister aside. “ I see one bare possibility,” he said. 
u You told me a little while ago that unless he has con- 
vinced himself, it would seem hopeless to try to convince 
him. I confirm that view.” 

“ Well? ” 

“ We must get him to convince himself .” 

“ You have some plan? ” 

“ The dawn of a plan. You are both staying, you 
told me, at 4 The George Inn ’ at Medenham. This 
evening I will arrive there as a casual visitor, and you 
will introduce me not as a mental practitioner, but 
merely as a man with a special gift of inducing sleep. 
It is vital that he should not know who I am.” 

******* 

“ The George Inn ” at Medenham is one of those 
delightful old hostelries still to be found in the small 
country towns and some of the villages of rural Eng- 
land. It lies bowered in roses and clambering wistaria 
and honeysuckle, under the shadow of great oak trees 
at the foot of Medenham Down. Near by runs the sil- 
312 


ON MEDENHAM DOWN 


ver Meden, fished by the anglers who come to stay at 
“ The George.” 

Both the Home Secretary and the barrister had 
brought rods with them for their week-end stay, and 
there was no surprise at the arrival in the evening of a 
silver-haired old man with keen-cut features and dark, 
grave eyes. No doubt he was also an angler. 

Hatchard recognised him as an acquaintance and 
introduced him to the Home Secretary, and in the star- 
light they sat out in the porch and chatted leisurely of 
things that mattered little. But under all this casual 
conversation — too trivial to need recording — ran 
strange undercurrents of thought. Early in the even- 
ing the Home Secretary had received a telegram. This 
lay in the outer pocket of his lounge coat, and every 
now and then his fingers would caress it under cover of 
the pocket. With the studied calmness of his face — 
the mask of the man of position — went a bright glitter 
of the eyes that could not be kept under. While he 
chatted leisurely on the porch of the inn, his real 
thoughts were elsewhere, with the woman he loved. 

The barrister, also outwardly calm, was watching 
eagerly for the unfolding of Dr. Wycherley’s plan, 
whatever it might be. All that had been arranged was 
that Hatchard should support the mental healer in any 
move he might introduce. Dr. Wycherley, for his part, 
had kept conversation on the level of the trivial so that 
Kennion should not suspect his real vocation and draw 
back into an unassailable shell of defence. First, he 
had to win confidence. Later . . . 

What was that strange sensation, that sense of 

313 


THE MIND-READER 


something impending in the immediate present? It 
came to the sensitive mind of the mental healer as a 
rasping against the calm ether of the starlit night in 
the quiet village. Most of us experience that vague 
sensation of impending events at one time or other, and 
sometimes we act upon it against the logic of our reason- 
ing faculties. Dr. Wycherley, with his super-sensitive 
perceptions, knew better than to neglect the warnings 
of intuition. He had schooled himself to respect and 
follow intuition, and in this case he made an excuse to 
the other two men and set out to walk to the end of the 
village, out into the lane which connects by a tangle 
of lanes with the broad highway of the London-Can- 
terbury road. From that direction he sensed the com- 
ing of some event which would cut sharply into the peace 
of the village inn. 

Rounding a corner between the high hedges, the 
glare of a motor-lamp flashed full upon him, and a car 
braked up on its haunches with a grinding of wheels. 

“ Is this right for Medenham ? ” asked the chauffeur. 
“ We’ve got mixed up in these twisty lanes.” 

But Dr. Wycherley’s eyes had turned to the solitary 
occupant of the car, a lady. Her veil was thrown back 
to let the cool night air play on her face, and with a 
shock he recognised her as Lilith Kennion, the wife of 
the Home Secretary. The portrait of the beautiful 
Mrs. Kennion by Shannon had been one of the features 
of that year’s Academy — she as well as her husband 
was a celebrity. But now there were lines of pain and 
anxiety in her face, and in a flash Dr. Wycherley 
realised that she had come to a knowledge of the situa- 
314 


ON MEDENHAM DOWN 


tion in which her husband stood and was pressing hot- 
haste to his side. In the present mood of the Home 
Secretary, the meeting would inevitably lead to a clash 
of wills, perhaps to an open declaration from which 
there would be no turning back. The situation lay 
poised so delicately that one jar would send the balance 
crashing downwards. 

It was a dangerous move to interpose between hus- 
band and wife at such a crisis of their lives, but Dr. 
Wycherley resolved to take it. He had been reading 
deeply into the character of Travis Kennion, and he 
knew that only from inside , from the man himself, could 
help come. Urgings from outside, even from his own 
wife, would only drive him deeper into his mad obstinacy. 

“ This is the way to Medenham,” replied Dr. Wy- 
cherley, “ but I wish to speak first with Mrs. Kennion.” 
He raised his hat with an old-world courtesy of manner. 
“ I have something very important to say to you — 
something vital. Will you spare me a few moments? ” 

“ Who are you? ” asked Lilith Kennion. 

“ A medical adviser of your husband’s,” was the 
answer, whispered so that it might not come to the ears 
of the chauffeur. “ More than that, a very sincere 
well-wisher. Will you not send the car ahead, and let 
us rejoin it presently? ” 

There was a magnetism in the personality of the 
mental healer that few could resist. His gently-ex- 
pressed wishes had more than the force of commands. 
Lilith Kennion realised the sincerity of this stranger 
with the silvery hair and grave dark eyes and told the 
315 


THE MIND-READER 


chauffeur to drive on for a hundred yards or so and 
wait. 

When the car had moved off, they looked at one an- 
other in silence for a few moments. Dr. Wycherley 
struck a match and held it up to his own face, so that 
she might read what he did not wish to put into words. 

“You know why I am here? You came to inter- 
cept me ? ” she asked, with a break in her voice that held 
pathos. 

“ I know. I sympathise deeply. I have a plan to 
help Mr. Kennion against his — his insomnia. If you 
will trust him to me for a few days — trust him implicit- 
ly — I think you will not regret it. He will sleep well ; 
his nerves will right themselves ; he will come back to 
you with renewed strength and courage for his fight. 
Again he will be a strong man doing battle for his Bill 
against the weak sentimentalists and the envy and malice 
of public life.” 

“ I could help him . . . perhaps.” 

“ You cannot help him directly — you or anyone else. 
He has to fight himself, to conquer himself. Strength 
must come from inside. My plan is to help him to help 
himself, without his knowing it.” 

“ And I? What am I to do? ” Her voice quivered 
under the strain of belief he was demanding. 

“ It would be best for you to go away for these few 
days — far away. To Scotland, say ... It is a big 
sacrifice I am asking of you. But you, like your hus- 
band, are on the pedestal of power, and much is de- 
manded from those to whom much is given.” 

316 


ON MEDENHAM DOWN 


“ I don’t want power,” she burst out impulsively. 
44 1 only want ... my husband. The rest is emptiness.” 

The glory of the starlit night wrapped itself around 
them — the meretricious glitter of the great city with its 
strivings and strugglings was far away. She began to 
weep very softly and pitifully. 

Then with a sudden effort Lilith Kennion drew her- 
self together. “ I will trust you,” said she bravely, and 
held out her hand. 

Dr. Wycherley raised it to his lips with old-world 
courtesy, and went to call the car back. 

A little later he had returned to the flower-banked 
porch of “ The George,” and soon he had managed to 
introduce the topic of the mystery of sleep. Kennion 
mentioned wearily that he had been sleeping very badly 
of late, and the barrister, taking the opening, spoke of 
his friend’s powers to induce sleep. 

“ If you wish for sound sleep, I can give it you,” 
said Dr. Wycherley. 

“ I have heard of that kind of thing,” returned Ken- 
nion. “ It sounds to me dangerous.” 

“ It rests with yourself. I do not press my gifts,” 
returned Dr. Wycherley. “ To-morrow I shall be 
tramping on, and we shall probably not meet again. 
If you wish to break the chain of sleepless nights, I can 
do it for you now, but not to-morrow night.” There 
was soothing in the voice and Kennion felt drawn to 
confidence. 

He accepted the offer, and presently in the bedroom 
Dr. Wycherley passed him into the lighter stages of 
hypnosis. 


317 


THE MIND-READER 


u And now?” whispered the barrister. 

“ Now leave us. What I have to do should rest 
secret even from a friend.” 

Far into the night the mental healer sat by the bed- 
side of the Home Secretary, speaking softly to the sleep- 
ing man of many, many things which he should know 
and realise. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE FORTIETH MILESTONE 

T HE next morning Kennion slept late. Before he 
awoke, Dr. Wycherley had left the village. The 
barrister had to return to town for his work, 
but the Home Secretary announced that he would stay 
on at Medenham for a few days, to fish peacefully and 
build up his nerves. Though he had slept heavily, he 
had been troubled by dreams, and he wanted his brain 
to be thoroughly clear for his parliamentary duties. 
For a couple of days his Under-Secretary could take 
his place. 

Hatchard listened to this sceptically. He had his 
own idea as to why Kennion wished to bury himself in 
the country, but Dr. Wycherley had insisted explicitly 
that Kennion should be allowed to work out his own 
salvation according to his own dictates. 

When the barrister had left for London, Kennion 
made his way to the post office and sent off two long 
cipher telegrams. One was addressed to the Under- 
secretary ; the other to a woman. Also he telegraphed 
to his wife to let her know that he would not be back 
in town at present. 

Later, he took up his rod and flies and went off to 
the quiet pools of the silver Meden. But his thoughts 
319 


THE MIND-READER 


were not in harmony with the quiet beauty of the rural 
scene. They buzzed within him, burst up into flame, 
died down into cold analysis, flared again into impetu- 
ous desires. The dreams of last night haunted him 
vividly and warred with his desires. They had been so 
extremely real — detailed far beyond the usual vague- 
nesses of dreamland. They haunted him. 

In a fever of impatience — at one moment aflame, the 
next cold and shivering — he waited for the reply which 
should come to one of his three telegrams. He returned 
early to the inn, without a catch, to receive the answer- 
ing wire. 

It had not come. It did not arrive, in fact, until 
late in the afternoon, and when it came he crumpled it 
up feverishly in his hands. “ Wait,” it said in cipher. 
“ To-morrow night, on the Canterbury road, by the 
fortieth milestone.” 

He must perforce wait . . . and think . . . and do 
battle with his thoughts. 

That evening he tramped alone far over the swelling 
downs, and at midnight he lay down exhausted beside 
a furze-bush and fell into a deep sleep. A sheep-dog 
came up and nosed him curiously, then moved away. 
Another of those tramps, no doubt. 

Kennion slept heavily, and again there came to him 
a series of dreams of a vividness that had never previ- 
ously been within his experience. He awoke at dawn 
in the cold gray hill-mists, bathed in sweat, and with a 
mocking voice ringing in his ears: 

“ Who are the Unfit? ” 

If the day before had been a battle, to-day was 

320 


THE FORTIETH MILESTONE 


an agony of conflict. Duty — desire! Duty — desire! 
The heights or the meadowland? Which must he choose 
for the peace that would be lasting? His mind was 
stretched taut on a rack of his own devising. 

And he was alone. No outside influence was there 
to throw weight into one pan or other of the balance. 
On himself alone rested the decision. 

In his complex nature, that gave him strength rather 
than weakness. It is so with many of the world’s great 
men, as Dr. Wycherley knew well. 

******* 

By the fortieth milestone the white highway curves 
in between the swelling downs and traverses a narrow 
neck half-way up the hills. 

The night was hot and sultry and working up to 
storm as the Home Secretary went to keep tryst with 
the woman he loved. She had arrived before him, hav- 
ing left her motor-car on the farther side of the hills 
and walked back on foot. She was young and dazzling- 
ly beautiful. When he came to her side she gave a little 
cry of gladness and held out her arms. No one was in 
sight — the curves of the road gave them solitude. 

But Kennion did not take her in his arms. His 
temples were throbbing, and yet his hands were icy. 

“ Come to where we can talk without interruption,” 
he said, and pointed to a chalk quarry near at hand. 

They went together, in silence. 

“ This is to say good-bye,” he said with a curtness 
that scarcely masked the surge of feeling within him. 

“ No, not good-bye,” she urged, and twined her 
arms around his shoulder. Her warm breath was on 
321 


THE MIND-READER 


his cheek ; the soft curves of her body rose and fell with 
breathing. 

But Kennion untwined her clasp with hands that 
quivered, and repeated : “ It’s good-bye, Vivien. I’ve 
decided. . . . For us both.” 

“ Why ? ” There was sharpness in her voice now — 
the sharpness of a woman balked in desire. “ I have 
the right to know.” 

“ Yes, you’ve the right to know. I have seen many 
things these last two nights.” 

“ Nights ! ” 

“ I saw the whisperings in the lobby, the furtive 
glances. Men looked away when I looked to them to 
nod greeting. Then I rose in the House to move the 
third reading of my Bill for the Segregation of the Un- 
fit. There was icy silence. I went through my speech 
red-hot with passionate enthusiasm for the great service 
this Bill would render to the nation ; but the House was 
icy. It was as though I were in the dock, and they 
were my judges. They put up Leveredge to oppose. 
His speech was mordant — bitingly mocking. 4 Who are 
the Unfit? ’ he flung at me across the floor of the House. 
They threw out the Bill. Even my own friends went 
into the lobby against me.” 

“ Dreams ! ” she cut in with a whip-lash of scorn. 
“ And even suppose you lost all that for me. Wouldn’t 
it be worth it? We’d go away together to where the 
world mattered nothing.” 

“ We went away together. We left Lilith breaking 
her heart against the iron heartlessness of society. We 
went away together to some distant isle under a tropic 
322 


THE FORTIETH MILESTONE 


sky. The world around us was marvellously beautiful, 
but there was no satisfaction in its beauty. Feverishly 
we drowned our hatred of its beauty in the madness of 
love. There were hectic cases in a desert of meaning- 
less sand. We pretended that the world mattered notl^ 
ing — that we were all in all to one another. But it was 
pretence, and we began slowly to loathe one another for 
the pretence forced upon us. I saw the loathing in 
your eyes ; you in mine. The days grew long to length 
insufferable — they dragged out into eons of time. . . . ” 

66 Who has been putting these notions into your 
head? ” she asked sharply. “ Dreams don’t come of 
themselves.” 

“ No one. That’s the vital point of it all. Hatch- 
ard had argued with me in his barrister-like way, but it 
left me unmoved. I’m not a man to go to another for 
help in the big decisions. No, Vivien, for two days I’ve 
scarcely spoken to a soul, and yet these dreams came 
to me with a vividness that was appalling. And at last 
I realised.” He paused. 

“ Realised what? ” 

“ That they came from myself — myself alone . 
That they were the inmost thoughts of my complex be- 
ing — the glimpse of the future that only the inmost mind 
can perceive. They were myself speaking to myself.” 
His voice was ringing now with conviction — the balance 
had swung definitely, decisively downwards towards the 
scale of duty. “ But what I’ve told you is not one- 
tenth of all the visions of the future that crowded in 
upon me. The wretched beings cursed by heredity . . . 
the still more wretched offspring of their marriages 
323 


THE MIND-READER 


... the scrofulous, the crook-backed, the epileptic, 
the paralysed, the imbecile that came into being because 
my Bill did not pass — they stretched out in endless 
phantasmagoria that tore at my heart-strings. They 
looked towards me in silence as they passed by one by 
one. They haunt me ! ” 

A low growl of thunder eddied and echoed among 
the hills. 

“ Come ! ” she said tensely, and plucked at his arm. 
“ Come before the storm breaks. My car’s below the 
hill. We’ll talk of this again when we’re in shelter. 
There’s a cottage in the Weald I’ve rented. We shall 
be alone there. Then we can talk over this in comfort.’ , 

“ In comfort? No, the decision is for now. I’ve 
decided — I go up on the heights of Medenham Down.” 

“With a storm breaking! You must be mad!” 
And she looked at him with new eyes, with a dawning 
horror in her eyes. “ Why, you must be . . . Your 
nerves must be unstrung. ... No man in his senses 
would ...” 

“ I’ve never been more sane than I am at the present 
moment,” answered Kennion. “ Don’t you understand 
my feelings after all I’ve told you ? ” 

“ I don’t understand at all. You are supposed to 
be a strong man, and yet a few idle dreams ” 

A blaze of lightning cut short her words. In the 
moment of light the milestone stood out sharply with 
its “ XL miles ” in stark shadow against the white stone. 

“ Forty miles,” mused Kennion. “ And I have seen 
forty years of life. It’s my milestone.” 

324 } 


THE FORTIETH MILESTONE 


She looked at him with chilly horror, thinking that 
his reason had tottered. 

“ Good-bye ! 99 he said firmly and finally, and strode 
away and up the green hump of Medenham Down. She 
watched him for some moments at his steady, purpose- 
ful climb, and then she gathered up her skirts to run for 
shelter against the breaking storm. 

But Travis Kennion strode on and up to the sum- 
mit of Medenham Down, and the rain slashed at him as 
he stood on the topmost knoll with folded arms, immo- 
bile, dreaming great dreams of what he might do for 
his country in the days to come. 

* * * * * * * 

As to Dr. Wycherley’s part in the big decision, Ken- 
nion never suspected. He could not know how the men- 
tal healer had sat by his bedside far into that Sunday 
night, speaking softly of the many things that had be- 
come woven into his dreams to such haunting effect. 
He could not know that the visions of the future con- 
jured up by his inner consciousness were but the reflex 
of what had been poured into his ears during the hyp- 
notic sleep. He had judged that they came from him- 
self alone — he had convinced himself. 

And Dr. Wycherley, on his side, never revealed the 
secret, even to Lilith Kennion. He saw the happiness 
of reunion ; he saw Kennion’s great Bill pass victoriously 
into law against the fiercest opposition ever known in 
the House of Commons ; and he was content. 

It was a triumph for the science of mind, and the 
keen joy of achievement was his. 


THE END 


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APR 2.2 1913 


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library of congress 


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